


It Was Love At Second Sight

by rednights



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Kaiju, First Kiss, First Meeting, M/M, Making Out, Mutual Pining, Passionate and Fascinating Exchange of Letters, Slow Burn, it just took me 30k to get there, me trying very hard to sound like i know science things, the fandom cried out for makeouts and i knew i had to help, walks into fandom 6 years late with a longass fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-07-10 05:03:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 35,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19900270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednights/pseuds/rednights
Summary: Hermann receives the first letter when he is eighteen years old.or: Kaiju don't attack the Earth, but Hermann and Newt still write letters, botch their first meeting, and fall in love, not necessarily in that order.





	1. Part One: Letters

Hermann receives the first letter when he is eighteen years old. 

It comes in the mail in the summer, when Hermann is on “break” from his studies—when he is ruining his vision squinting at online articles on his laptop screen from the safety of his bedroom rather than by trying to read in poorly-lit corners of the university library. He is in the process of doing so—ruining his vision, that is—when his mother taps on his door and says, “Hermann, there is something in the mail for you.”

Hermann frowns, stands stiffly from his desk to take it. His mother doesn’t try to make it easier for him, doesn’t step farther into the room or stretch her arm out, and Hermann never knows whether to feel grateful or to resent her for it as he limps over to lift the envelope from her waiting hand. He sniffs, looks at the front of it. There’s his name, handwritten in a messy scrawl in ink that bleeds a little, and then the address of Technische Universität Berlin, followed by several forwarding addresses in varying fonts. He’s surprised it reached him here at all. 

The return address simply says _N. Geiszler_ , followed by an address he doesn’t recognize from somewhere in the United States. 

He really has no idea what it might be. He doesn’t know any N. Geiszlers, nor any Geiszlers at all, and despite the small start of a reputation he is gaining here in Berlin and perhaps the rest of Germany among the Applied Science community, he doesn’t know who might be writing to him from _America_. Much less writing to him...freehand. Emails, perhaps. Refuting his theories or trying to challenge his findings. He gets those every now and then. But handwritten letters? 

He returns to his desk and opens it carefully, unfolds several sheets of loose paper covered in the same untidy scrawl as the envelope. 

The first lines read, in fluent German, “ _Dear Mr. Gottlieb; I know we don’t know each other, but I just finished reading your paper_ , Multitask-Based Trajectory Planning for Redundant Space Robotics Using Improved Genetic Algorithm.” 

For a moment, Hermann thinks it really is a rude, dismissive response to his work, only with the added insult of being painstakingly written by hand. 

But then the next line says, impossibly, “ _Obviously, I was absolutely blown away._ ” 

Hermann blinks in surprise, clears his throat, and settles in to read the rest with renewed interest. 

What follows is, to Hermann’s absolute shock, a long, rambling, _impassioned_ letter that goes through Hermann’s most recent paper point by point, marvelling at its ingenuity, rhapsodizing over the possible implications of the results, asking incredibly provocative questions about further research. The writer challenges some of Hermann’s points, but only in a way that Hermann himself challenges his own work, and sometimes in a way that Hermann _should have_ but clearly failed to. It’s chaotic and occasionally somewhat hard to follow, with smudged words and messily misspelled words, but it’s...stimulating. It’s _captivating_. Hermann’s cheeks are hot and red within minutes. 

Somewhere near the end of the letter, the writer makes a throwaway comment about being a “ _fellow young post-grad student_ ,” and Hermann will never admit to how quickly he drops the letter to pull his laptop closer, typing in the name that he scans the end of the letter for. _Newt Geiszler._

There are depressingly few search results, but those that do come up are informative enough. Newton Geiszler, one of MIT’s finest _and_ youngest. The first article he pulls up shows a grainy newspaper photo of a startlingly young, bespectacled man shaking the hand of MIT’s president with a grin, taken two years ago. The photo is too small and low quality for Hermann to really get a good look at him. 

He is so flustered by his burning desire to do so that he closes the tab immediately and turns back to the letter. 

The rest of it is much of the same, and despite its length, Hermann has read through it before he wants to be finished. This is a startlingly narcissistic thought for him to have, but it’s true nevertheless, and Hermann can’t stop himself from reading through it a second time, heart in his throat. Now that he knows it’s coming from this—this Newton Geiszler, this seventeen-year-old prodigy, it feels. Different. Hermann was already flustered, reading such a complimentary response to his work. He is embarrassingly more so knowing it comes from a brilliant young man whose smile shines even through a digitalized newspaper photo. 

“So?” his mother asks, later that day when they’re sitting stiffly around the dinner table, just the two of them with Hermann’s older siblings already living away from home and his father always tied up at work. “Who was the letter from?”

“Ah,” Hermann says, spooning food into his mouth just to avoid having to speak for another few moments. “It was, er. A doctorate student from MIT. He had some comments on my work.” 

“Hm,” his mother says, and that’s the end of that conversation. She has little interest in his studies unless it’s news of commendation from a reputable source. He does not think seventeen-year-old Newton Geiszler will count. 

It certainly counts for Hermann. 

He writes back that same night, hand shaking a little as he holds a pen over crisp white paper. He writes “ _Dear Newton Geiszler_ ” before he panics, scratches it out, and throws the paper away. This boy—Newton—had addressed him the same way, had started with _dear_ , but it somehow feels too intimate. He instead painstakingly carves out the letters, “ _Mr. Geiszler_ ,” like a professor about to chastise an unruly student, and then stops short and wonders how he’s even supposed to proceed. 

Does he say thank you? Does he let on how much something like this means to him, a young man struggling to attain even half of what his father expects of him? No—of course not—but what if he did? What would Newton say? Would he respond, tell Hermann he can’t believe no one else says these things to him, tell Hermann he’d say it again, say it to anyone—everyone—who doubts him? 

Hermann shakes himself and puts it out of his mind. He refuses to be pathetic.

That said, does he pretend as if he knew who Newton was all along? He’s never read any of Newton’s papers; he mostly writes in biology, sometimes biochemistry, from what Hermann saw in his search. Not Hermann’s area of expertise at all. But then, Newton had shown _extraordinary_ understanding of Hermann’s work. It almost makes him bitterly jealous, knowing Newton can understand Hermann’s paper well enough to have a complex, discerning opinion on it, while Hermann would barely be able to make heads or tails of high-level biology literature. 

Instead, it just makes something wobble in his sternum. 

In the end, he decides to be as honest as he can be without humiliating himself, though not without changing his mind several times first as well as halfway through the letter. He thanks Newton with genuine gratitude for both his kind words and his stimulating counterpoints, and then gets caught up in arguing back, or sometimes conceding that more research must be done. It’s invigorating, having this kind of conversation with someone who is not hellbent on proving him an idiot in his field. 

At the end of his letter, he can’t help but add, “ _You seem to have comprehensive knowledge on this topic, but I know Applied Science and Engineering are not your main areas of study. How did you stumble across my paper? If you don’t mind my asking._ ” 

He accidentally signs off with “ _Yours truly,_ ” and has to scrap the entire last sheet of paper, rewrite it word for word, and then ends it with, “ _I look forward to your reply. Hermann Gottlieb_.” Even that feels like gross overexposure of his feelings. 

He folds the paper into thirds, slides it into an envelope, and seals it before he can think on it anymore, red in the face. And then he rips it back open to add a note about his current mailing address, his address as it will be starting in the fall, and his email address, just to be safe. _Then_ he seals it, addresses it, and. Sets it on his desk. 

Next week, he tells himself. He’ll mail it next week, so as not to seem completely desperate. 

He caves by the end of the next day.

~

It’s two weeks until Hermann receives a letter back from Newton Geiszler, and every minute of it is hell. He’s not sure when or how he turned into this ridiculous, desperate creature, starved for attention—or maybe he does, but he will never admit to it—but he finds himself cursing the postal system for days on end. And then, by the middle of the second week, he starts to worry that Newton didn’t get his letter, or that he hadn’t expected a reply, hadn’t _wanted_ a reply, had somehow changed his opinion of Hermann between the time he wrote his last letter and now. It’s a horrifying thought, regardless of how unrealistic. He can’t stand the thought of such utter humiliation. 

But then a letter _does_ come, and it takes every ounce of Hermann’s restraint to not rip it from his mother’s hands. He opens it with uncharacteristic zeal in the privacy of his room, nearly slicing the papers inside with the letter opener, and feels his chest swell at the satisfying thickness of the sheaf of papers within. It’s at least triple as thick as his last letter. 

As it turns out, two thirds of it are pages and pages of academic research—a paper written by Newton, for one of his Masters-level courses. It’s on the “ _Electric and magnetic fields in the astrophysics of wormholes_ ”—space talk. It’s right up Hermann’s alley, though he doesn’t understand how it can be up Newton’s. 

He delves eagerly into the letter. 

Newton, he quickly discovers, has _extremely_ varied taste. He’s aiming for a PhD in bioengineering—but only to start. He has interest in many things, admits he can’t seem to settle on just one, so he keeps taking classes in all of them. Recently, Newton says, he’s been on an “ _astrobiology bender_ ,” which apparently branched out into astrophysics over the course of the past semester, and which is now leading him into space robotics. And Hermann, he says with all the confidence Hermann does not feel, is obviously a notable voice on this subject. 

“ _And maybe I had heard of you before,_ ” Newton writes, as if it’s a sidenote, barely worth mentioning. “ _So I was eager to get into some of your stuff_.” 

Hermann blushes red and moves on to the part where Newton rips into the counterpoints in Hermann’s last letter. 

Afterwards, Hermann reads Newton’s astrophysics paper, and although some of it goes a little over his head, he still finds it compelling and captivating. This time, unlike the last, it’s easy to get straight into writing his response—he has things to say about Newton’s research, holes in the conclusions he couldn’t help but see, applications for the findings in his own work he can’t help but want to explore. He’s not sure how much Newton will understand about Hermann’s points on the intersectionality between his work and Newton’s, but then, Newton has only impressed him so far. 

Feeling warm under the collar, he tells Newton as much. 

“And, I suppose, the letters just became...regular, from there,” Hermann says, cheeks hot and red as he averts his gaze from his sister’s on the screen of his laptop, three months later. 

Karla hums, and Hermann looks at her nervously, spots the thoughtful look on her face, and quickly looks away again. “How positively romantic,” she says, arching one sharp eyebrow. She inherited those eyebrows from their mother, and uses them just as efficiently. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermann says, sniffing uncomfortably. 

He and Karla are not exactly best friends, as far as friendships usually go. They are leagues closer than anyone else in their family is, but there remains a sort of distance between them, aided by the _physical_ distance between Berlin and London, where she teaches and does research at Cambridge. They’re four years apart, and thus did not become anything even _close_ to friends until Hermann was into late adolescence and started being interesting to her. 

But they’re the only two members of their family who seem to be capable of anything like affection, and, Hermann supposes, strictly speaking Karla _is_ his best friend. They call each other regularly, keep each other updated on the goings-on in their lives, occasionally review each other’s work. Complain to each other about their parents. 

Hermann has only been back at school for a bit over a month now, which is why they’ve been talking for as long as they have, catching up on all of the new gripes Hermann has about their father since being home on break. It’s late, now, past midnight, and both of them are usually sensible enough to end their calls at an earlier hour, but Hermann had a lot to say. Two months in his family home makes for _hours_ of conversation. 

Which of course has led to the late hour, which had loosened Hermann’s tongue too much, and he had let slip about the letters, and now, to his embarrassment, he has been forced to relate the entire series of events to Karla, and she is giving him this horrible _look_ , all inquisitive and indulgent. As if Hermann is a cross between a young child and an interesting experiment. 

“What,” he snaps, flustered. 

“Nothing,” Karla says mildly. “I just wonder what you could possibly be writing to him, if you’ve been exchanging letters so frequently for this long, but can only call your sister every couple of months.”

“You could call me, you know,” Hermann says, rubbing at his cheek as if that will make it stop flushing. “Anyway, it’s all academic. I send him excerpts from my papers, you know, and sometimes entire articles I’ve written, and he does the same. We rip each other to pieces, quite frankly.” With a healthy side of praise, if he’s being completely honest, which he’s not. They devour each other’s work like hunters take down their prey—relishing the fight as much as the feast. 

“Is that so,” Karla hums. “Interesting, considering you told me he’s a bioengineer. Not much overlap between your areas of study, is there?”

Hermann sniffs. He doesn’t know why he tells his sister anything, if she’s just going to be...difficult. “He’s extraordinarily well-read,” he says, not quite sure why he feels the need to defend Newton. 

“Yes, but last I heard you had no interest in much outside of Mathematics and Engineering,” Karla points out, still smiling. 

The Gottliebs do not smile much, as a whole. Hermann wishes Karla would remember that. 

“I’ve started taking an interest,” he says, well aware of how ridiculous and revealing that is. 

“I’m sure,” is all Karla says, her eyes sparkling with something Hermann does not like and does not want to know more about.

It is, quite frankly, rather difficult for Hermann to keep up with Newton in their letters. They don’t stick to Hermann’s areas of expertise, which requires Hermann to do absurd amounts of extracurricular reading late into the night just so that he can sound _competent_ , as Newton always sounds competent and, in fact, completely effortlessly knowledgeable. It’s embarrassing, the amount of extra work he puts in. 

He’s begun sending his papers to Newton before he hands them in, too, which requires even more work so that he can get Newton’s thoughts on them before they’re due, but evidence suggests it to be worth it. His professors seem to notice. His arguments are clearer, they say. Less holes. Better analysis. 

He tells Newton this. He’s not sure why, but he suspects it has something to do with the fact that Newton keeps sneaking in little facts about himself, hints at his daily life, passing mentions of things he likes outside of academia, the number of energy drinks he had to consume to finish a paper in time—not coffee, though, he can’t stand the stuff. Hermann rarely, if ever, reciprocates. He told Karla it was purely academic, their correspondence, and that had been true. Until now. 

In his next letter, Newton responds that he’s been receiving the same kinds of remarks, and that his professors don’t seem to understand his sudden desire to change all of his paper topics to things relating to the intersection of astrobiology and astrophysics. He adds a little smiley face on the end. Hermann’s heart skips a beat. 

Four months into their correspondence, in response to Hermann’s mathematical projection of his certainty that human exploration of space will be safe based on certain contributions to robotic engineering, Newton writes:

“ _But listen, Hermann, there’s no such thing as 100% guaranteed, or even 99.9%. Once you get into this level of mathematical projection, it’s just that. You can never counter that a set of unique or specific circumstances won’t cause any event to happen. No matter how much you say it’s 99% probable that something won’t happen, it’s not a fact that out of every 100 people, 99 will be okay and 1 will get crushed by the weight of space or flying debris or whatever. Nature is noise in probability. No matter what your sample size is, you can’t predict it. Haven’t you ever seen Jurassic Park? Life finds a way, and all that. And, you know. So does death and disaster._ ”

It’s then that Hermann falls a little bit in love. 

(He does not tell Karla this.)

~

It’s a slow process, getting to know Newton beyond his academic interests and opinions. A glimpse here, an inference there, is all that Hermann can really glean from his letters in the beginning, and it’s not for lack of trying. Newton is brilliant, his mind works in incredible ways, sometimes too fast for his pen, and he has a great deal of passion for many things, but that’s all Hermann really knows at first. Other things he slowly puts together—that Newton is stubborn, and a harsh critic, but that he accepts that he is wrong when it’s clear that he is with surprising grace. That he loves debate, but rarely finds people willing to engage him in it. That he, like Hermann, struggles to gain respect from his peers and professors due to his age, even when they recognize his intelligence. 

“ _Maybe it’s because my voice is so grating_ ,” Newton jokes in one letter, and Hermann files that fact away with the same deliberateness that he does every new tidbit of information, like a man taking notes for an examination. 

With difficulty, he avoids searching for information about Newton online. It’s an absurdly romantic notion, but he finds that he wants to learn about Newton from the man himself, especially after Newton makes it clear that few people judge him fairly in his daily life. Hermann thinks that, at the very least, he owes Newton the courtesy of letting him speak for himself. 

Hermann is, additionally, completely terrified of seeing Newton’s face. Thus far he has only seen a single small, blurry picture of Newton at age fifteen, taken from an odd angle. This is all he _dares_ to see. Aside from what he remembers of that photo—dark hair, glasses, a bright smile, and little else—his mental image of Newton is relatively unscathed. Instead, he can believe he’s merely enraptured by Newton’s mind, by his brilliance and the lilt of his written voice, the way he wields both German and English and spins both languages into theories and arguments and praise. This is infinitely less embarrassing than something as base and childish as a _crush_. So he doesn’t look. 

Instead, he listens. And occasionally, when he is feeling particularly brave, high on the receipt of another letter from Newton that makes Hermann feel clever and appreciated, he asks. Never pryingly, and rarely outright, but he hints and alludes. He writes that Newton’s vast knowledge of so many subjects makes him wonder if he started studying the sciences very young. He writes that he can’t imagine Newton has any time for any other hobbies outside of academia. 

_Dude_ , Newton writes, in English now that he knows Hermann speaks it. Somehow, the use of ridiculous slang in the midst of intellectually invigorating conversation always makes Hermann smile. _I started university at age fourteen. How much younger do you want me to be?? But seriously though, yeah, I was partially raised by my uncle, who was got me into electrical engineering really young. Like, seven years old young. That’s kind of why I’m really into your robotics stuff :) My uncle’s German, so he’s read some of your stuff too. Just saying._

And, _You’re saying you don’t think I can multitask? Joke’s on you, I have tons of hobbies! Though I’ve kind of had to put some of them on the backburner...for now. Anyway, I grew up on monster movies and manga and stuff, and that’s kind of why I’m really into biology and other sciences. Also I’m in a band! Did I mention my parents are both musicians? Music runs in the family. The band’s not popular or anything, but it’s fun. You should check us out sometime :)_

“He didn’t actually tell me the name of his band, though,” Hermann tells Karla in another video call. Somehow, their conversation always comes back to Newton. Hermann pretends, steadfastly, that it is Karla’s fault and not his. 

“Well,” Karla says slowly, as if Hermann is very stupid. “You could ask.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermann says, warm under the collar at the thought of it. “How embarrassing.”

Karla sighs. “I had always hoped I might have passed on some of my social skills to you before I moved out.”

“No such luck,” Hermann says drily. 

“He’s your friend, Hermann,” Karla says, and for some reason that makes him blush. “You’re allowed to ask him the name of his band, especially after he volunteers the fact that he has one and that you should listen to their music without any prompting.”

“I don’t want to seem...overly interested,” Hermann says crisply, and clears his throat. “Besides, he didn’t even say what type of music they play.”

“I’m sure the mystery haunts your every waking moment,” Karla says, and smiles. 

Hermann sniffs, and does not admit that she’s right. 

Newton asks about Hermann sometimes, too, much more forthright than Hermann is. He usually shoots Hermann’s inquiries straight back at him, asks about his childhood, his hobbies, his background. Hermann doesn’t think he’s an interesting person, and worries constantly about oversharing or coming off as overly familiar besides, but he answers honestly, if sparingly. 

He says that his father’s a leading robotics and engineering expert, and that’s why he’s grown up in those fields, despite his specialty being abstract mathematics. (He does not mention how much he hates that that was thrust upon him, that he hates how he now has to live up to his father’s expectations while constantly living in Lars Gottlieb’s shadow.) He mentions that he rarely has time for hobbies, but he enjoys astronomy, and occasionally reads for pleasure when he has spare time. (He does not mention his frankly disturbing relationship with his telescope as a child, or the cheap Victorian-era paperbacks that lie in stacks under his bed, tucked away even in the absence of people who might see them.) 

He doesn’t go into family drama, or guilty pleasures, and he _certainly_ doesn’t go into the fact that he had wanted to be an astronaut right up until he realized he would never pass the physical exam. Those things are not what Newton wants to hear. 

Despite Hermann’s reluctance to get...personal, the tone of their letters changes over time regardless. A year goes by of their constant correspondence—a letter every two weeks, like clockwork—and what began as two colleagues on similar academic footing analysing data and arguing over implications turns into something else, something _fond._ Hermann begins to understand how Newton’s mind works, starts to be able to guess how he’ll respond to something Hermann says before he even writes it. He says so, teasingly, in his letters, every time he says something he knows will send Newton into a frenzy. 

Hermann _teases_. 

And Newton teases him back, mercilessly. Hermann doesn’t seem to have to share anything about himself in order for Newton to pick him apart and exploit every weakness. At the beginning, Hermann is taken aback by this, thinks instinctively that he’s being made fun of—which, from past experience, he usually is. The first time he reads a letter in which Newton tells him he has terrible taste in scientists—this comment in response to Hermann sharing some of the leading figures he admires in his field—he nearly throws the entire letter out, his stomach squeezing in cold disappointment. 

He only reads the rest of it so that he might know where he went wrong, and is shocked and embarrassed when Newton’s rant about scientists with greater scope, more _pizzazz_ , ends with the words, “ _I’m kidding, obviously. Those guys you mentioned are geniuses. Let’s discuss Cociarelli’s latest paper on brain-computer interface next letter! But also you better check out the names I mentioned if you haven’t heard of them. Expand yourself, man!_ ” 

Newton does not clarify that he’s teasing every time he says something of that nature, but Hermann learns to infer it. He learns to expect it. He learns, appallingly, to _enjoy it_. 

He learns to expect a great many things from Newton, from bad American slang, to long-winded diatribes about the fact that no one ever listens to him, to poorly-drawn diagrams of things he can’t quite seem to capture in words. He expects stains on Newton’s letters to him, and vaguely off-colour jokes, and overzealous self-confidence that is only slightly above what he actually deserves. 

What Hermann does not expect, somehow, is a little note at the end of a letter, well into their second year of correspondence, that says, “ _Hey, have you ever even seen my face? You seriously have no pictures of yourself online...what the hell haha. That’s totally not fair because there are a bunch of pictures of MIT’s wunderkind out there, and also I have a Facebook account like a normal person!! But I don’t know if you’ve seen them which is why I’m bringing this up because I’ve definitely looked you up (and found the internet lacking!) but I don’t know if you’ve ever done the same. Anyway is it weird if I say I want to see your face? We’ve been writing letters for over a year and we’re friends (right? haha kidding but we are friends right) and I have no idea what you look like! I did see a picture of your dad though and may I just say, I hope you don’t take after him. (Unless you do in which case, I’m sure the look is better on you.) Anyway. All of this is to say, I’m sorry for including an unsolicited picture in this letter, you are not obligated to look at it, I just figured I couldn’t ask to see your face without offering my own first and also I didn’t want to chicken out by the time you wrote back. So there it is. If you don’t want to look at it, don’t, and never mention this again, or I will die. This already feels weird and vaguely creepy enough as it is. Your friend (right???), Newt._ ”

Hermann’s heart thuds in his throat. With slightly shaking hands, he picks the envelope back up and peers inside—indeed, there is a square of what looks to be photo paper inside, left there when Hermann slid out the letter. He can’t see the face of it, just the edge, a bit of the white back. It taunts him, right there at his fingertips, and tempts him as much as it terrifies him. He had already decided to never look at Newton’s face, but only _because_ he wanted to so badly. And Newton has literally offered it up to him. 

Newton has sent Hermann a picture of himself, and Hermann is desperate to know what kind of photo it is. A headshot, like the one on Hermann’s student ID? A graduation photo? Something more casual, a candid photo taken by a family member or a, a _bathroom selfie?_ Hermann thinks he might be sweating. 

He almost decides not to look at it. Newton gave him the option not to, and if Hermann doesn’t look at it, he’s not obligated to reciprocate, something he isn’t sure he wants to do. And he is equally uncertain he wants to know what Newton looks like at all, after a year of imagining a vague face behind the voice in Newton’s letters. What if he isn’t what Hermann expects? What if...seeing him breaks the spell, somehow? 

He turns the envelope over so that the face of the photo is away from him, and then gently attempts to shake it out into his hand. He hasn’t even made a decision yet. Or maybe he has. He isn’t going to look at it. He won’t look at it. It’s—it’s too much. Too intimate, too, too—

The photo flutters out of the envelope, slips between his fingers, and lands face-up on his desk, right in front of his eyes. 

And there he is. Newton Geiszler. Staring up at Hermann, bold and shameless and—

Oh, good lord. He’s attractive. 

It’s a good-quality photo, though Hermann knows that even most phone cameras will take a decent photo these days. He’s outside somewhere, sitting on the top of a picnic table with his feet planted wide apart on the bench, elbows on his knees. A lazy, overconfident pose that suits Newton perfectly. He’s wearing a dark graphic t-shirt that stretches over broad shoulders, and black jeans with rips at the knees that cling tight to his legs, bunched up at the ankles above heavy combat boots. 

Hermann doesn’t bother spending much time looking at his outfit, though, not when there’s so much to look at just in his _face_. 

Wild, unruly brown hair. Rounded cheeks, a little stretched by a soft, lopsided grin. Chunky black glasses over bright eyes that Hermann can tell are startlingly green even from a relatively small photo. A shadow of stubble over an angular jaw. 

Hermann’s mouth goes dry as he stares, transfixed. For a long minute, he can’t look away from Newton’s face—the tilt of his mouth, the curve of his cheek, the dark smudge of his eyelashes. And when he tears his eyes away from that, there are other things to look at. The breadth of his torso, the bracelets wrapped around his wrists, the pull of the fabric of his jeans over thick thighs. His nails are painted black. There’s a tattoo peeking out from the sleeve of his t-shirt. 

Hermann had not thought he had a type. Now he realizes he does, and it’s this infuriatingly handsome young man staring up at him from a photograph, looking like everything Hermann has never been allowed to be, much less _have_. 

It’s disgusting. It’s humiliating. It’s _horrible_. 

Hermann has a crush the size of Jupiter.

~

Despite the many unfortunate and unsavoury things that have happened to Hermann in his lifetime, he has never quite known agony like the kind he faces when it comes to responding to Newton’s letter. 

“Karla,” he says, calling his sister despite the fact that it’s five in the afternoon on a Tuesday. He’s lucky that Karla picks up at all, that she’s not in the middle of a lecture or an important work meeting. She seems to be doing her shopping—he can hear someone complaining over expired milk. “Newton sent me a photograph.”

“Did he? Are they nude photos?”

Hermann splutters, face red. “No, of course not! Why would you even say that?”

Karla hums mildly. “Because I understand people better than you do.”

“It’s a perfectly respectable photo,” Hermann tells her, although he feels as though he would have been equally affected regardless. “I just. I wasn’t expecting it.”

“And? How does he look?” Karla says. “And don’t lie to me. I’ve looked him up, so I know what you’ll say if you’re telling the truth.”

Hermann burns with the fire of a thousand humiliated suns. “I refuse to answer that question.”

The silence that follows is distinctly satisfied, and Hermann can picture his sister grinning as if his refusal is answer enough. He supposes it is. 

“Right, so, why did you call me?” Karla asks. “And may I take this opportunity to remind you that I told you to only call me on the phone, long-distance, in the case of an emergency.”

“This _is_ an emergency,” Hermann hisses. “Karla. What am I supposed to _say?_ ” 

Karla gives a single, sharp laugh, which somehow throws Hermann into even greater of a frenzy. 

“How am I supposed to respond?” he asks, perhaps somewhat desperately. “I— He has sent me a photo, Karla, without any warning, and what am I supposed to say to that?” Especially when Hermann has stared at it for what may be _hours_ , cumulatively, pinned as it is to the corkboard above Hermann’s desk in his flat. “Do I address it first thing, before I say anything else? Or do I leave it until the end? I—I don’t even remember what the rest of Newton’s letter _said_ at this point. I can’t be expected to have an intelligent rebuttal in whatever argument we’ve been having when _Newton_ has _sent me_ a _photo._ ”

“Oh, _Brüderchen_ ,” Karla sighs. “You make me so sad sometimes.”

“This is a genuine problem, Karla,” Hermann says stiffly. “I don’t know what to say, and I am asking for help.”

“I know, that’s what’s making me sad,” Karla says. “Honestly, Hermann, I have to go, I need to get home and make dinner and mark papers. Congratulations on the photo, though.” 

“I hope you know that I hate you,” Hermann tells her. She hangs up. 

At his desk in his room, Hermann puts down his phone, takes a deep breath. He glances up at the picture in front of him. His cheeks redden, and he quickly looks away. 

“ _Dear Newton_ ,” he writes—he does that now. Says _dear_. He second-guesses it for the first time in months, now. 

And then he chokes. He doesn’t know what to say. Should he just pretend he didn’t look at it, and say nothing, as Newton offered? It’s a tempting option. He could just avoid this entire embarrassing fiasco. 

But he _has_ seen it, and he doesn’t want Newton to think he misstepped. The only thing worse than Hermann’s own humiliation is Newton’s at his own expense. 

“ _Dear Newton_ ,” he writes, “ _I think perhaps I’m in love with you._ ” Just for the satisfaction of having written it. Then he quickly rips the paper into absurdly small pieces, throws it out, and gets out a new sheet. Anything would be less embarrassing than that, he thinks. It makes it easier to move forward. 

“ _Dear Newton; You’re right. I had never seen a picture of you before. I thought it might be inappropriate for me to pry. But now I have, for better or for worse. And I must admit, it’s a very,_ ” and he grasps for a fitting adjective, desperately, “ _flattering photo._ ” Oh, good god. This is the worst thing Hermann has ever had to do. “ _It’s not how I pictured you, when I bothered to imagine a face at all, but I think it’s...not incongruous. I’ll admit I was a little surprised at first, but I think I can imagine the person in the photo writing to me all this time._ ” 

God, now Hermann _is_ imagining it, Newton hunched over a desk scribbling out letters to Hermann late into the night as Hermann himself sometimes does, lit only by a yellowish lamp, mouth curled into a smile as he pens out teasing taunts and brilliant theoretical analysis. Maybe dressed in soft pajamas, this late at night, or just a worn t-shirt and boxers—

Hermann shakes his head furiously to dispel the thought, writes out, “ _Unless you’ve just sent me a photo of a random man and it isn’t actually you. Although, since you say there are photos of you online, I suppose that wouldn’t be a wise choice if you want to avoid my calling you out. However, as there are no photos of me to be found, as you say, you’ll have no idea if what I send you is actually me._ ” 

And that brings Hermann to the next stage of his agony: sending Newton a picture of _himself_. 

There is no greater embarrassment than choosing a single photo to send to someone to represent oneself. Hermann doesn’t have many photos of himself—never thinks to take any, and his family certainly isn’t the sentimental type, even if he was willing to ask his mother for them, which he’s not. He doubts Karla has any more than he does, and he’s cross with her right now and doesn’t want to ask. 

And he is _not_ going to...to stage a photo to send. He’s sure that Newton would be able to tell, and Hermann would never live down the humiliation. No, he. He has to be able to find _something._

But all he can find from the past several _years_ are...graduation photos, mainly, and his passport photo when he got it renewed the previous year. Through several internet searches, he finds two or three pictures that feature him in a group, mostly on student research teams, once in the background at a lecture given by his father. Recalling Newton’s letter, he squints between his father’s face and his own. There _is_ certainly a resemblance, he thinks. Around the ears and mouth. Hopefully...hopefully not too much of a resemblance. 

Hermann holds no misconceptions about his physical attractiveness, but he can’t help but, well. He doesn’t want Newton to find him _repulsive_ , is all. And his father is not a particularly handsome man. 

Briefly, Hermann entertains the thought of printing off one of the group photos, circling his face, and sending it to Newton like that. He might be able to get away with it as a joke—if Newton believes him capable of making jokes—and the picture would be too small and grainy for Newton to get a very good look at him. Also, in one of them Hermann was having a good enough day that he wasn’t using his cane, and although it’s not something he’s ashamed of, he doesn’t necessarily want that to be Newton’s first impression of him. 

But alas, that seems like an unfair trade, and Hermann doesn’t want to have to go through this process a second time if Newton complains. 

After the most agonizing deliberation possibly of Hermann’s life, wherein he looks at every single picture of himself he can find and immediately abhors every last one and starts to wonder if his face has always looked so strange, he just. Chooses. The hour is getting absurdly late on his _third day_ of putting this off (when usually he’s written and sent his reply by now), and Hermann’s eyes are burning from the amount of time he’s spent squinting at his computer screen in the dark, and he’s beginning to go from embarrassed to angry. He’s not getting anywhere. And he knows he’s not getting out of this. So he just _chooses_. 

He picks a photo he digs up from a professor’s Facebook page, of all things. It’s from the previous year, when he’d been asked by his supervising professor to be a guest presenter in one of his undergraduate classes. He’s standing behind the lectern—cane out of the way, conveniently—but his torso is still visible, his hands tightly clasped on top of it. He’s wearing his basic school clothes, collared shirt and vest and jacket, and he looks very serious and focused, mouth twisted in what almost resembles a grimace. Hermann hates the photo almost immediately, but he hates it slightly less than every other one he’s seen in the past three days, so he prints it out onto heavy cardstock, cuts it out, and sticks it into the envelope forcefully, face burning red. 

It feels absurd. This whole thing is absurd. He hates it with a burning passion. But Newton asked for it, and although Hermann is unreasonably scared that he’ll regret this for the rest of his life, he is coming to realize that he cannot refuse Newton anything. 

Which just makes him feel more embarrassed, all things considered. 

_“As it turns out, I did not have many photos to choose from to send to you,_ ” he writes to Newton the next morning, after a night of fitful sleep. “ _I did my best with what I had to work with. If you make fun of me, Newton, I swear to god, they will not be able to find a body. I feel absolutely ridiculous as it is._ ” And then, with a sniff, he adds, “ _I hope you do not find me too similar in looks to my father._ ” 

He does not entertain fantasies of Newton finding him handsome—comes to terms with the fact that it is highly unlikely. But he _truly_ just hopes he doesn’t say Hermann looks like his father.

~

Two weeks pass, and Hermann is in a constant state of inner torment. He knows it’s melodramatic of him, but every day that he does not find a letter in his mailbox, regardless of how fast the post would have had to be for it to have already arrived, he feels like he is one day closer to death. And yet, at the same time, he feels like he will burn the envelope immediately upon seeing it, with how much he doesn’t want to see the reply. It’s very confusing, and _very_ mentally and emotionally taxing. 

The second week is harder than the first as the sick anticipation builds, but Hermann realizes he did not actually know the meaning of true agony until those two weeks _pass_ and still a letter does not come. For the past year and a half, their letters have been like almost supernaturally consistent. As much as Hermann doesn’t want to see what Newton has said upon seeing Hermann’s face, he at least wants to know that Newton _had_ something to say. Silence is...by far the worst possibility. 

He doesn’t get _truly_ worried until the third week. By the fourth, Hermann has had what he can only describe as a minor breakdown where he stayed up all night spiralling into increasingly dark thoughts, followed by the beginning of the grieving process. 

“It’s just that Newton is...my best friend,” he says to Karla, dejectedly and once again late at night. He’s been calling her much more often recently, and he blames that on Newton, too. “He’s my closest friend.”

“I know, _Brüderchen_ ,” Karla says, uncharacteristically sympathetic. 

“This is why I wanted your help,” Hermann says spitefully, rubbing his sore thigh. “I only wanted to not be embarrassed, and now—”

“Well, it’s for the best, frankly,” Karla says. “If he’s going to stop writing to you after—seeing your photo, or whatever has stopped him, then I’m glad you’ve found out sooner rather than later. He’s obviously a right bastard.”

Hermann purses his lips and swallows thickly. “I suppose,” he says, voice soft and hoarse. “But a part of me still wishes I would have never sent one at all. And I could have just. Written to him in ignorance. Forever.”

“My god, Hermann, listen to yourself,” Karla says, and Hermann flushes hotly. But then she just says, “I’m so happy to know my brother is, in fact, in possession of real, actual human emotions. This is the most normal I’ve ever heard you.”

“Shut up, you,” Hermann says, sighing and lowering his head in shame. 

He supposes he can only be glad it happened before Hermann could fall _too_ hopelessly in love with him, and accidentally say something to give himself away. Newton ending their correspondence over that would be significantly worse than this, he thinks. Though this is still rejection, he supposes. It doesn’t sit well in his gut. 

Of course, he is thus absolutely shocked when a letter _does_ come in, written in that same messy scrawl as always. He rips it open before he even remembers that he didn’t want to see what was inside. 

“ _HERMANN!!!!!!!!!!!_ ” is written in bold, bleeding ink along the top of the page, in lieu of a normal greeting. Followed by “ _HOLY SHIT!!!!!!_ ” Hermann isn’t certain what this is in reaction to, or what tone it is supposed to be read in, and he isn’t sure he wants to find out. 

He reads on regardless, with the knowledge that he will never know peace if he does not. 

“ _Dude. Oh my god. Okay first of all, I want you to know that none of this is my fault, I am absolved of all blame. Also, your face??? But I’m getting ahead of myself! I’m an innocent party here and I can’t believe this is happening to me or you or the sanctity of our letters._ ” 

After that first paragraph, Hermann still has no idea what he’s talking about. 

“ _Okay. FIRST OF ALL, I’M LATE! I’M SO LATE AND I’M MAD ABOUT IT BUT IT’S NOT MY FAULT._ ” Here he liberally uses large, bold, capital letters that take up far too much of his page. “ _I was in the hospital! My body betrayed me, and then my neighbor conspired against me! Okay what happened is that I had to get my appendix removed, hahaha. It was actually terrible, would NOT recommend. Okay so like that was like two weeks ago? And presumably your letter came like the same morning I was getting a goddamned SURGERY? And I was there for three days because I was dying and stuff, it’s fine. I know you’re worrying but don’t, dude, I promise, I am back in business. Who needs a freaking appendix anyway am I right._

_“Alright so that happened, and I was high on the good drugs, and I guess I was expecting your letter to come in (it was a few days later than usual???) because I called my neighbor, while high, to ask them to bring me my mail AT THE HOSPITAL. And they did but your letter wasn’t in it and I was like oh I guess he hasn’t responded but then you kept not responding and I got worried because, haha, I sent you an unsolicited picture of myself in my last letter and I thought maybe you hated me now. Or something. It was a whole thing and I’m not proud of it._

_“Anyway eventually I was going to like send you another letter or something, either pleading or demanding to know what your problem was or maybe both. But then my NEIGHBOR came to my HOUSE and was like, haha, Newt, I think this got mixed up in my mail when I was grabbing yours for you that one time, whoops! THEY STOLE MY MAIL HERMANN! For TWO WEEKS!! I almost called the police._

_“The point is, nothing is my fault, nothing is ever my fault, I am blameless and perfect, and now here I am, fully two weeks late, but I will admit I am one extra day late and this is why:_

_“HERMANN. YOUR FACE._ ” 

It is at this point that Hermann _very_ nearly throws the letter out to save himself the embarrassment of whatever must come next. He’s weak-kneed with relief that Newton didn’t mean to be late in replying to his letter, that he didn’t halt all communication upon reading Hermann’s last letter, and he’s even pleased that Newton was so similarly troubled by his belief that Hermann didn’t reply to _him_ , and that he’s so apologetic at having made Hermann suffer the same fate. But that doesn’t mean he’s not terrified to continue reading the _rest_ of the letter. 

But he does, because he knows he could never survive not doing so. Even if it’s not pretty. 

“ _Hermann. Your FACE! It’s. I don’t even know what to say about it. That’s your face! That’s my friend Hermann’s face! Are you giving a presentation or something because that’s so cute. In your fancy little outfit. But oh my god dude your FACE???_ ” 

Hermann has no idea what he _means._

_“Also I can’t believe you called my picture ‘flattering’ like dude I’m so. Okay actually scratch what I was just about to write haha. But seriously. That’s a cute thing for you to say and you should say it again. You’re right! It’s a good picture which is why I chose it._

_“Your picture is also good and your face??? Is kind of weird like in a good way like those CHEEKBONES DUDE god. You definitely don’t really look like your dad haha. It’s a good face!!_ ”

Tension drains from Hermann’s shoulders like a physical weight melting away. Thank _god._

 _“Honestly dude like I don’t even know what to say. I’m just. So happy to be looking at your face :)_ ”

Hermann will never, even under duress, admit how those words (and that blasted, immature smiley face) make his eyes...burn a little. He’s gone through a series of strong emotions, is all, in the last few minutes. His body is reacting...strangely. 

He sniffs, reads on. 

Most of the rest of the letter is a response to the usual conversations they have in their letters, peppered with continued apologies at being late, threats towards his neighbour, and occasional exclamations about Hermann’s face that Hermann still doesn’t fully understand. At one point he says, “ _It suits you perfectly, you Victorian scholarly bastard,_ ” which he’s not sure isn’t an insult, and at another point he says, “ _Every time I look at it I laugh? Which sounds bad but I swear it’s not. It’s just like a, ‘HA! THAT’S MY DUDE HERMANN!’ It makes me so happy._ ” This makes Hermann blush, even though he doesn’t know what in god’s name Newton is even talking about. 

And at the very end of the letter, Newton writes, “ _Despite what a huge disaster this whole thing was, I declare Project Picture Exchange a success! Which means you have no excuse to not send me more! Or is that a weird thing to say? That way you can confirm it’s actually you, haha. Not that I doubt you, unless saying I do will convince you to send me more pictures of yourself. Once again, I feel like that’s a weird thing to say. Okay, signing off. Your friend, Newt._

 _“PS - thanks for not saying I look. I dunno, not like a scientist or an academic or whatever. I get that a lot haha. Anyway yeah thanks :)_ ”

Hermann has to put the letter down for a few minutes while he lies down after he reads it the first time, just to...process all of his myriad emotions about it. Then he goes to his desk, where, in a fit of pique, he had thrown Newton’s photo into the drawer so that he wouldn’t have to look at it after believing he had been...spurned, so to speak. Now, he takes it out, looks at it for a long time, and blushes very deeply for no particular reason other than that Newton said he had a _good face_ , while Newton himself has the best face Hermann has ever seen. It’s appalling. Hermann briefly hates how attractive he is. 

(He does not, indeed, particularly look like a typical scientist or academic. But Hermann knew Newton’s mind long before he knew his face, has been awed by Newton’s mind, and really, that’s all he ever needed to know. The face—and every other physical detail about him—is just. Icing on the cake. A very—horribly—delectable...cake.)

(Hermann disturbs even himself.)

Hermann looks at Newton’s photo so intensely that it nearly turns into fury for several minutes, and then he goes back to the letter to set about rereading it obsessively before responding. He’s already formulating a response. 

Placations, and then shop talk, and then...the photo issue. Tit for tat, he will say, strangely emboldened by Newton’s request. If Newton wants another picture of him, he’ll have to offer up something of himself first. It’s _appallingly_ flirtatious. Hermann can barely believe he’s even considering it. But— He does rather want another picture of Newton. The one he has is bound to get old eventually. Even though it certainly hasn’t stopped doing it for Hermann yet. 

And then he’ll go to sign off the same way Newton has been, with an amiable “ _your friend_ ,” and then maybe, if he’s brave, if he’s foolish enough, he’ll leave off the end, and just write “ _yours._ ” And then, to distract Newton from that, he’ll add, “ _PS - I appreciate your saying I don’t look like my father. He’s an ugly bastard and I won’t hesitate to say so._ ” 

Or maybe he’ll do none of that. 

Not until he’s had a drink or two, at least.

~

“ _Hermann!!!_ ” is once again how Newton’s return letter begins, which Hermann is beginning to think of as a compliment. After all, he lives to rile Newton up, as easy as that is. 

“ _Dude, I can’t believe you’re trying to con me into sending you more pictures,_ ” he continues, and Hermann smiles a little, red in the face. He’s been perpetually embarrassed about his last letter for two weeks, but with this response he’s not yet regretting it. “ _Honestly, it’s so unfair, because you could just look me up online! You have unlimited access to a bunch of pictures of me if you wanted them! Including ugly ones! While I, on the other hand, have to beg and plead and risk humiliation just for one picture of your face. The injustice… And also!! You have the option of seeing VIDEOS of my face, if you looked up my band. I know you completely ignored me mentioning it the last time but there are recordings of gigs and things on YouTube and there is NOTHING on you. Nothing! So. I will NOT send you another picture, and instead I’ll just leave you with that. Do with it what you will_.”

Once again, Newton does not actually mention the name of the band, as if he hasn’t fully committed to wanting Hermann to see them. It’s endearing, if frustrating. 

“ _In other news, you calling your dad an ugly bastard absolutely made my week. I was in tears, dude. Funniest fucking thing you have ever said. I’m assuming you two don’t get along?_ ”

This makes Hermann pause. Up until now, he has only ever hinted that he doesn’t exactly have a close or affectionate relationship with his family, and as far as he knows has never specifically said that his relationship with his father is particularly strained. He’s kept his cards close to his vest, so to speak, when it comes to those private matters. But Newton is asking. And Hermann...well. Newton is his friend. Hermann thinks maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world, to share a personal matter or two with him. 

But before he does that, Hermann goes in search of the infamous Band. 

It’s quite a bit of work, all things said. Some cursory Google searches bring up no information, other than a series of photos of Newton from MIT publications that make him blush furiously. (Regardless of the quality of the pictures, Newton remains ridiculously attractive, and Hermann shamefully bookmarks more than one of the pages he comes across.) So he turns to Facebook, since Newton mentioned in a past letter that he had an account. And since it’s difficult to do much without a profile himself, Hermann is forced to make one, though he uses his mother’s maiden name in lieu of his actual last name to avoid being found there by anyone. 

It takes him a while, still, to find Newton, most likely because his profile is under the name _Newt Geiszler_ rather than _Newton_. Hermann finds this rather ridiculous and unprofessional, but also very much like Newton to do so, and he blushes at the fondness it evokes in him. 

Most of Newton’s photos on his Facebook profile are private, which means Hermann can’t see them without “ _friending_ ” him, which he is most certainly _not_ going to do. But there _are_ a few public photos that Newton has been tagged in. And, more importantly, there is a _video_ that he’s been tagged in—a shaky recording of a band playing at what looks like a grimy bar, under the name _Kaiju Blue._

Hermann clicks on it. 

He nearly has an aneurysm. 

It is, quite possibly, the worst music Hermann has ever heard in his life. It’s noisy and cacophonous and obnoxious, and Hermann truly, _truly_ hates it. And the absolute worst thing about it is the fact that it’s coming from the _most_ attractive boy Hermann has ever seen. 

Newton is right in the front, immediately recognizable in his chunky glasses and blinding grin. He’s off to the side a little, behind a keyboard, which he is playing with vigour, bouncing on his toes. And he’s singing into a microphone—he had never mentioned he was the _lead singer_ —and he was not wrong, that time he mentioned to Hermann that his voice is grating. It is, rather, especially in a higher range. His jaw is scruffier than it had been in the photo he sent to Hermann, and he’s in a sleeveless shirt, proudly displaying tattoos on his upper arms that Hermann can’t make out from such a distance in such poor lighting. He looks a little ridiculous, a very clearly young man in a seedy bar yelling into a microphone, but good _god_ Hermann has such a crush on him. 

And honestly, he _can_ carry a tune, and he obviously knows his way around a keyboard. And in lower tones, his voice loses the somewhat shrill quality, and instead is rough in a way that makes Hermann’s mouth dry. The song is still terrible—it’s _really_ bad—but Hermann can’t stop listening to it. He can’t stop listening to Newton’s voice and looking at his joyful face as he performs and the way his shirt stretches across his chest and. Hermann swallows thickly, compulsively. Perhaps this was a mistake. 

Within the hour, Hermann has bookmarked four other videos of Kaiju Blue performing at various decrepit venues, singing songs Hermann absolutely despises. He has also bought their entire album. Hermann starts to think he might be losing his mind. 

Overall, just in general, he thinks he may be losing his mind over Newton Geiszler. He spends his days idly thinking about Newton’s last letter, or his own reply, or when he might expect a response. The days surrounding the arrival of a new letter are always a mess of anticipation, and then an embarrassing frenzy when it finally comes as he rushes to devour it, and then absolute fixation until he has penned a response and sent it off. Those few days are almost entirely a write-off, every two weeks. And the frequency with which Hermann pulls out Newton’s photo just to look at it is truly disgusting. And the amount of time he spends doing extracurricular reading just to keep up with Newton! It’s humiliating. He worries, constantly, about his performance in school slipping due to this...this _obsession_ , even though he has seen no evidence of this. 

And it’s been going on for so _long_. He always thinks that eventually the excitement of it all will wear off, that he will stop having such a strong reaction to Newton and his letters, but it’s been a year and a half now, and his feelings have grown, if anything, _stronger_. 

His new preoccupation with Newton’s face is only making it worse. Hermann hasn’t had a crush like this in, well. Ever, maybe, unless he counts that boy in his class when he was nine—Jorg, with the curly hair and freckles—but that had ended in Hermann’s nose pushed into the dirt and his glasses broken, so. He has not pursued any such passing fancies since then. Until now, when he’s been quite blindsided by it, really, he couldn’t have expected—

Hermann blows out a heavy breath. Presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. Sneaks another peek at the photo of Newton on his desk. It’s really— He’s just _such_ a handsome man. It makes Hermann a disturbing combination of sick and giddy just to look at his face. And perhaps he should be more concerned about the strength of his feelings, and how disastrously they will crash and burn, inevitably, if he continues to nurture them. There’s really no other possibility. 

“It might not be _that_ bad,” he tells Karla, during yet another ill-advised late-night update wherein he reveals altogether too much about feelings he should really work harder to keep private. “After all, Newton lives thousands of kilometres away. Across an entire ocean.”

“Right,” Karla says. “That solves everything.”

“It doesn’t _solve_ anything. It provides...insurance. There’s a, an enforced distance, a detachment. It’s the only reason I’ve allowed things to go this far at all.”

“ _This far_ ,” scoffs Karla. “Hermann, if you’re going to pretend you’re not in love with him, you might want to change the language you use to talk about him.”

Hermann blushes deeply. “I’m not— I’ve never even met the man, Karla. He lives across the world.”

“Mhmm,” Karla says, all-knowing, like an Eldritch abomination. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hermann says, and sniffs. “It’s not like I’ll ever even have to meet him in person.”


	2. Part Two: Meeting

In the year following The Photograph Ordeal, the tone of Hermann and Newton's letters _does_ change, in a way that feels very minimal over time but, when Hermann looks at a letter from Before and After side-by-side, is very obvious and embarrassing.

The most prominent change is the frequency with which Hermann discusses personal matters. He starts, of course, with a few details of his relationship with his father, after Newton inquires after it. Just the bare minimum, a brief overview of Lars Gottlieb's personality and accomplishments and how both of them make Hermann's life more difficult. Newton is gratifyingly outraged in his reply, mostly at Hermann's father pressuring him into pursuing engineering when he would have liked to go into something more in the field of abstract mathematics. It makes Hermann want to tell him more.

It's easier, of course, when Newton reciprocates with stories about his own family—the affair that resulted in his birth (making him "a true bastard," he writes with a ridiculous tone of pride)—and his upbringing by his father and uncle, his strained relationship with his mother, his childhood being encouraged to pursue whatever he liked. He mentions that this kind of freedom came at the cost of any real friendships, that he was always leagues ahead of his classmates until he wasn't, and instead was significantly younger than them. Hermann was never more than a couple of years ahead of his peers—Newton is farther ahead in his academic career than Hermann—but he can relate to the lack of childhood friends regardless.

He tells Newton this. He never expected to tell Newton this.

He never expected a lot of this. He is frightfully more open, over time, than he ever thought he would be, with _anyone_ really.

He tells Newton more about his family, and his childhood, and his (awful) time in English boarding schools, and although he often feels embarrassed once the letter has been sent, Newton always responds with appropriate (if overdramatic) fury or indignation. So they continue to trade stories, and commiserate, and make ultimately meaningless threats at the other's past aggressors. And then they tell other stories, stories about Newton going fishing with his uncle, stories about Hermann getting his first telescope, their first science fair victories and IQ tests and published papers. Newton talks about the formation of his terrible band, which Hermann has still not confessed to looking up. Hermann sends Newton a photograph of himself at space camp, age nine.

They do that, now. Send each other photos, just because they want to. Mostly Newton, but Hermann reciprocates when he can find something he isn't horrified by. A short recording of him giving a guest presentation on possible improvements to a new Mars Rover that he gave when a professor fell ill. A picture Karla took of him receiving his Master's degree. Anything he can think of that won't send him into a spiral of humiliation.

Newton is more free with his photographic additions. Childhood photos of him standing in a canoe, holding up a fish and beaming, front tooth missing. A polaroid of him and his bandmates after a gig, grinning and hair damp with sweat. A very handsome wallet-sized photo of him posing triumphantly with a beaker of electric blue fluid, which Hermann likes so much that he actually puts it in his wallet. A picture of him and a very pretty young woman, smiling in front of a marquee sign advertising a monster movie marathon.

Hermann stares at that last one for a very, very long time. He doesn't like it. It doesn't sit well in his stomach, Newton's face so close to some—some girl Hermann doesn't even know the name of. All Newton said about the picture in his letter was that it was from the previous week. The girl is a mystery. Hermann hates mysteries.

He also hates jealousy, which he is aware is exactly what he's feeling. Jealousy, even though he knows it can never and _will_ never be him, standing next to Newton in photos, smiling and close. Just...jealousy that someone else gets to witness this, that someone else gets to see Newton in the flesh, hear his voice, see his smile and possibly even be the cause of it, hear his _laugh_. Hermann has never heard Newton laugh.

It occurs to him, briefly, that it doesn't have to be that way. It's not like there's anything keeping him from asking Newton if he'd like to call him, or Skype him like he Skypes Karla, or something of the sort. This isn't the 1800s, despite their dedication to handwritten letters. They could email, if they wanted to speed things up rather than waiting two weeks between each letter. They could instant message. They could hear each other's voices, see each other's faces. They have that _option_.

But Newton has never suggested anything. And Hermann, despite this hot flare of jealousy ignited by the absurdly fortunate girl in Newton's photo, is hesitant to suggest it either. It's just that they've got something good going right now. It's been working for them very well for going on three years now. The idea of changing anything now is intimidating at best. What if—what if anything else is worse? And everything is ruined? Nothing terrifies Hermann more than ruining anything he has with Newton.

Despite all of this, he still asks, with what he hopes is an air of nonchalance, " _Who's the lady in the photo with you at the cinema? I don't believe you've mentioned a significant other before?_ " Because he's still jealous, and he's still bitter, and there's a part of Hermann that he thinks is fiendishly masochistic, a tiny tiny part of him that hopes Newton will confirm it just so that he can stop entertaining such ridiculous feelings. A part of him that hates the girl so much that it turns into hatred of himself, and thinks that confirmation on Newton's part will be the punishment he deserves.

"Don't be ridiculous," he mutters to himself as he slips the letter into the post box across the street from his flat. "He lives across the world from you, and you only speak every two weeks." To have such a deep _infatuation_ is absurd, because they only write letters to each other, they're nothing more than _penpals_ , and they'll never even meet face to face, and they don't even live in the same country, and. And Newton most likely already has someone, even though he's never mentioned anyone in any of his letters. Because he's handsome and brilliant and funny and charming, a glorious hurricane of a man, a supernova of a man, a black hole that has pulled Hermann in, and has doubtlessly pulled in someone else, someone closer to him who is equally beautiful and smart and— female. Probably. Statistically likely.

He starts to wish for it, just a little, while he waits for Newton's reply. As much as he knows it will crush him. Everything would just be so much _simpler_ if Newton told him he has a girlfriend. Worse, but simpler.

But in the two and a half years that he has been exchanging letters with Newton, the only thing that has remained the same is Newton's uncanny skill for surprising Hermann.

" _Haha, what?_ " he writes in his reply, two excruciating weeks later. " _Definitely have not been hiding a significant other, though I appreciate your belief that I've got game. The girl's Phoebe, she's my friend from the comic book store! Did I not say that? Haha. We went to the movie marathon together... Anyway, she's pretty, right?_ " 

Here, Hermann's stomach turns with sick jealousy, and equally sick masochistic satisfaction, because he's still right, in a way; even if they're not together, Newton wants, Newton _prefers_ —

But then, of course, the next thing Newton writes is, " _Too bad she's only into girls and I'm, like, 90% only into dudes._ "

Hermann has to put the letter down for several minutes after that, just to wrap his head around it. Newton— Newton is.

 _Hermann_ is—

He has to take a series of deep breaths to come to terms with this. The excitement of it is as thick and heady as the overwhelming sense of dread, because this can mean nothing good for Hermann's embarrassing crush. _Nothing_ good.

But it's okay, Hermann tells himself. Because there's still all that distance. There's still the entire ocean between them, and the fact that there's no reason for him to ever see Newton in person, and a crush isn't truly real until you've met someone face to face. Or at least that's what Hermann forces himself to believe.

This is, of course, exactly three days before Hermann receives an email about a Space Exploration Symposium taking place in six months in Sydney, Australia, already boasting some of the leading minds in Space Theory as keynote speakers, which Hermann immediately wants to go to more than he has wanted almost anything in his life. And it is four days before he receives his first ever email from Newton Geiszler, which is just an attachment of the poster to that very same symposium, and the words " _HEY HERMANN YOU WANNA GO TO SYDNEY?? YOU WANNA GO TO FUCKING SYDNEY WITH ME???????_ "

Hermann clearly _has_ gone out of his mind at this point in his life, because, for some godforsaken reason, he replies less than a minute later, and he says _yes_.

~

“I’m terrified,” he tells Karla, when he finally gathers the courage to tell her about the symposium. “I think perhaps I’m making a terrible mistake.”

“You’re going to a convention, Hermann, not confessing your undying love for him,” Karla says blandly. 

Hermann ignores that, for the sake of his own sanity. “It’s just— It’s all so sudden, and I didn’t even think about if, if it was _feasible—_ ” 

“Well, does it interfere with your schooling?” Karla asks, arching one eyebrow. 

Hermann rubs a hand over his warm face. “It’s in the middle of the semester,” he confesses. “But I was able to clear it with my professors and advisors.” 

“Then I think you’re fine,” Karla says. “What’s not _feasible_ is you and him trying to plan this trip via handwritten letters.”

“We’re emailing,” Hermann says crisply. 

“Really? Hermann, I’m shocked at you. Sacrificing the romanticism of the wait.”

Hermann clears his throat. “We’re emailing about the trip. Everything else is still in letters.”

Karla snorts. “I was joking, but I realize now I shouldn’t have been.”

Hermann considers, not for the first time, hanging up on her. “I cleared it with my professors, but it’s still— it’s a week-long event, in the middle of the semester. It’ll be difficult not to let it affect my studies.”

“Then work harder,” Karla says with a shrug. “Stop obsessing over your boyfriend’s letters for a week or two so that you can get some work done.”

“Don’t call him that,” Hermann hisses. He sniffs, clenches his jaw. “I also haven’t told Father yet.”

“About the symposium?” Karla rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to tell him, Hermann, you’re almost twenty-one. You’re an adult.”

“I know, but. I feel as though I shouldn’t just leave the country, without even telling either of our parents. And if I tell Mother, she’ll tell Father.”

Karla grimaces. “And the only thing worse than telling Father something is him finding it out through someone else.”

Hermann nods, picks at the cuff of his sleeve. 

“Well, it doesn’t affect him, anyway. Why would he care?” 

“Well, I don’t know. He seems to care a great deal about what I do with every moment of my life, and generally disapproves of all of it.” 

Karla doesn’t have anything to say to that. She knows it’s true. “Well. Then just tell him, and ignore whatever he says, because it doesn’t matter. You’re old enough to make your own decisions, _Brüderchen._ ” 

Hermann wishes it were that easy. “I’ve never been outside Europe,” he says, changing the subject. “I’ve never—booked a flight, or chosen a hotel. And I don’t exactly have a lot of money to spend on this trip.”

“It sounds a lot like you’re just trying to convince yourself not to go, Hermann.”

Hermann grimaces. “I just. I’m not sure about how I feel about _meeting_ him. In _person_.”

He’s excited, too. In his own way. He’s excited for the symposium and to spend it with someone equally passionate about the subject matter, he’s excited to try something new, go somewhere interesting. He’s excited to learn new things. And he _is_ excited to meet Newton. He is. He’s just so _nervous_. There’s a _reason_ why Hermann has very little in the way of friendships. He’s _boring_ , up close and in person. A stilted conversationalist, even more so in real time than on paper. Bad at reading people, and exhausted by long bouts of socializing, and terrible at smalltalk, and. What he and Newton have between them is so _good_. And what if Newton doesn’t like him. 

“And we’ll be sharing a _room_ ,” he tells Karla. “Neither of us have the money for our own hotel room so we’ll be...splitting the costs. And it’ll just be the two of us in a hotel room for an entire week.” 

“Hermann, I will never understand how that isn’t a _literal_ dream come true for you. I really won’t.”

Newton, it appears, has no such concerns. 

“ _I’m so fucking stoked_ ,” he writes in one of his letters that arrives between emails that could have just as easily said the same thing. “ _It’s going to be so fucking cool to learn about space with you. Like I know that’s the most ridiculously nerdy thing anyone has ever said, but I take great pride in my nerdiness so I’ll say it. Learning stuff is cool and I’m stoked to do it with you. I’d be stoked to do basically anything with you. The two of us in one room? Explosive_.”

This gives Hermann a number of embarrassing and shameful mental images, which he quickly tries to pretend he never had. But as jealous as he is of the easy way Newton says it—his easygoing nature and complete lack of self-consciousness—it also warms Hermann to hear it. Said to him so plainly. As if it’s the only opinion people should have, despite Hermann’s long history of people generally not wanting to be in the same room as him at all. Including his family, for the most part. If they were in the same room as him they might feel obligated to show familial affection. No, no, distance was the Gottlieb way. Even Karla is warmer when she’s in another country, speaking to him through a screen.

It had been Hermann’s way, too, he had thought. He had never really craved closeness. Until Newton. 

Because he does crave it. In the darkness, in his most shameful moments, in his most secret thoughts. He craves it as much as he fears it. He thinks that probably isn’t normal. He thinks that’s probably his family’s fault. 

He almost tells Newton that—that he thinks maybe he has intimacy issues on account of never having felt affection from his family—but thinks better of it. Best not to scare the man off before they even meet in person. 

Oh, god. They’re going to meet in _person_. 

Thankfully, the symposium is still months away. Six, in the beginning, and then still five. And then four, and the nerves start creeping in on Hermann. And then three. Newton sends him a birthday card in the mail. A week later he sends Hermann another card to celebrate their three-year anniversary of their correspondence. Hermann is sick with giddy anticipation and anxiety. Then it’s two months. Newton calls him, “ _My dearest Hermann_ ” at the beginning of a letter. Teasingly, of course. As a joke. Hermann knows it must be a joke. 

What is _not_ a joke is Newton saying, in that same letter, “ _Oh my god, Herms, something insane just came up yesterday at the university? So I’m working on my Bioengineering PhD, right, and my thesis research is all around artificial tissue replication. As you know. Anyway apparently there’s a bioengineering conference thing in a couple weeks (the 23rd!) and, shocker, I was NOT asked to present, because people hate asking twenty-year-olds to present their brilliant research I guess. But now apparently there’s a guy who just dropped out who’s supposed to be on this roundtable, and it’s for the bilingual programming or something, I dunno. The point is I MIGHT get asked to join because I’m INTELLIGENT DAMMIT and also I speak German. Oh I forgot to mention it’s in MUNICH??? Which as you know is close to BERLIN??? Well kind of close. Anyway ANYWAY the point is: I’M (maybe possibly) COMIN TO YA DUDE. I’LL BE AT YOUR BACK FUCKING DOOR!!!_ ”

Hermann puts down the letter and hopes, for a moment of frozen terror, that it won’t be true. It’s been a week since Newton sent the letter. The twenty-third is now only four days away. Hermann is not ready to be so near Newton in, potentially, four days. And besides. If it were actually happening, Newton would have said something. Sent him an email. He must have not been invited after all. Hermann tells himself this, soothingly. It must have been a false alarm. 

He checks his email an hour later. He has a single notification in his inbox. 

“ _DID YOU GET MY LETTER???_ ” is the subject title. The only thing in the body of the email is, “ _I’M GOING TO MUNICH BABY!!!!!!!_ ”

Hermann has one tiny, little, insignificant panic attack.

~

It’s not that Hermann doesn’t _want_ to see Newton. It’s just that he’s not _ready_. And, technically, Newton didn’t actually _ask_ to see him, or anything. Nor has Newton told him when he’s arriving, or how long he’ll be in Germany, or anything like that. He’s just told Hermann that he’ll be in Munich. On the 23rd. And today is the 19th. 

In four days, Newton will be in Munich. 

Hermann says nothing. 

He’s not proud of it, but he says nothing. He doesn’t reply to the email. He doesn’t even reply to the letter—not that it would reach Newton in time anyway, even if he did. He just...works, and focuses on his studies, his _own_ PhD, silently, fretfully. He doesn’t even tell Karla. He has another panic attack when he idly looks up train tickets. The days pass by. The twentieth, the twenty-first. Hermann doesn’t even check his email. 

On the twenty-second, he looks at his schedule for the following day. He chews his fingernails down to the quick. He looks up the conference schedule. There’s only one bilingual roundtable. It’s scheduled for four in the afternoon. It’s three hours from Berlin to Munich on the train. 

Tickets for the conference are 70€. It’s a ridiculous price for a conference Hermann doesn’t even want to go to. He doesn’t know anything about biology. Except what Newton has told him. 

And Newton has told him a lot. Newton has been rhapsodizing about his research for years. _Years_. And Hermann has listened, because that’s all he _can_ do. But tomorrow, at four o’clock in the afternoon, Newton will be on a roundtable, talking about his research. And Hermann won’t even be there to support him. 

Hermann buys the ticket. He buys the train ticket, too. He throws up in his bathroom afterwards. 

(He is not proud of it.)

He doesn’t necessarily have to tell Newton he’s there, he tells himself. He can pretend he was—out of the country, or something. Deathly ill. Getting his appendix removed, like Newton did that one time. And maybe that negates the support he will be providing Newton from the crowd. If Newton doesn’t even know he’s there. But Hermann will feel a little better about it. He thinks. 

He barely sleeps a wink the night before the conference. He fusses over what to wear for an hour, so long that he nearly misses his train, and ends up wearing the same sort of clothes he wears at the university every day. He is aware, vaguely, that they’re not very attractive, that they don’t do him any favours. But they’re comforting in their familiarity. And Hermann can use every ounce of comfort he can get. 

The conference is taking place at the Hilton Munich Park Hotel, nestled between Englischer Garten and the banks of the Isar. Hermann takes a taxi there from the train station. He’s nearly six hours late for the beginning of the conference. He’s fifteen minutes early for Newton’s roundtable. 

He spends those extra fifteen minutes trying not to hyperventilate on the stairs outside the hotel doors, rather than actually finding the right room. 

As it is, by the time he registers _and_ finds the correct room, the roundtable has already begun. Hermann slips in through a side door, heart pounding wildly in his chest, so hard that it makes his throat hurt somehow. 

He’s at the back of the room, off to the side. It’s a large room, full but not crowded. It’s one of the only sessions completely in German, so it’s likely that most of the audience members are students from nearby universities, here for extra credit. Hermann fits right in. He shuffles his way into a back row of seats, sits down shakily. 

People are talking. There’s a table along the front, along which six men and women are sitting. 

The second from the left is Newton. 

He looks like a child, next to his fellow participants. Twenty years old, and round in the cheeks. He looks small, and his foot is bouncing behind the table, and Hermann’s heart is one skipped beat away from giving out completely. 

He’s even better in person than in pictures or videos. Hermann doesn’t know how that’s possible but it’s true. His face is soft, listening intently to the man speaking, and he’s smiling a little, mouth quirked up on one side. He’s wearing a white button-up shirt and a tie about an inch too skinny to be considered appropriate, and the sleeves are pushed up to the elbows, but not far enough to reveal any of his tattoos. His hands are clasped on the table in front of him. Even from the back row, Hermann can see that his nails are painted black, just like they were in the first photo Newton ever sent him. Under the table, on his bouncing feet, he’s wearing ratty sneakers. 

It’s ridiculous and unprofessional and Hermann wants him _desperately_. He feels such a rush of fondness and repressed lust that he goes a little dizzy. 

He doesn’t listen to a word anyone’s saying. There’s no point, really—it’s all about bioengineering, something Hermann still knows very little about outside of Newton’s research, and even that he doesn’t really understand. He just sits, and stares, and probably unnerves the person next to him with the intensity of his gaze and the fine tremble in his body. His heart continues to hammer at his ribs. Newton Geiszler. In the same room as him. Explosive, indeed. 

He speaks for the first time—Newton does. Jumps into the conversation somewhat abruptly, with an anecdote about his research that Hermann doesn’t really understand out of context, in a fumbling sort of way that makes one think he doesn’t speak the language often, at least not in academic settings. His voice is familiar to Hermann, a little pitchy and overly loud, and he speaks with confidence. Hermann’s heart shines with ridiculous pride, and he smiles despite himself. 

Newton’s copresenters all look at him, smile in a way that is somewhat indulgent. Another person starts speaking, moving on to another subject, as if Newton hadn’t said anything. 

Hermann frowns. Newton frowns, too, clutching his microphone. 

A minute later, he tries again. Speaks up in a half-second of silence, a breath between phrases, with a theory he plans to pursue after his thesis, if he has the time. And again, his copresenters brush it aside with little more than a word, as if he’s a persistent child interrupting their conversation. 

And it happens again, and again. His copresenters grow visibly irritated with him, as he continues to cut them off and talk over them. Newton’s voice rises, grows slightly more shrill, and Hermann winces. But he doesn’t blame Newton, not at all. They’re not giving him a chance to speak. They’re asking each other questions, bouncing off each other, but passing over Newton completely, like he’s not even there. If Newton wants to say something, he has to squeeze himself into the conversation, jump on any moment’s hesitation just to be heard. 

Hermann understands, to a degree, Newton’s copresenters’ assumptions about him. Newton looks _frightfully_ young, and he speaks too loudly, and he stumbles over scientific jargon—words he almost definitely never uses at home in casual conversation with his uncle. He’s not used to talking about his research in his mother tongue, and he only had a few days to prepare, and it’s not his _fault_ he’s speaking too loudly, he’s only trying to be heard, and—

Newton’s face is growing redder by the second. Hermann’s heart goes out to him. Of all people, Hermann knows what it feels like to be overlooked and ignored. 

Hermann is also, underneath that, furious. How dare these people believe Newton is anything less than brilliant? There is a certified _genius_ in their midst, and they have the gall to _dismiss him_. 

Newton tries harder. He speaks louder. He gets cut off and says, “Just wait a second, I want to add that—” and the man who had been speaking when Hermann walked in says, “Listen, kid, can you let us talk for a moment?”

A couple people snicker audibly, including, Hermann thinks, one of the copresenters. Newton’s face flames. Hermann can see it all the way from here. His stomach sinks. 

Newton doesn’t say a word for the rest of the discussion. To others, it probably looks like defeat. Hermann knows it’s defiance. It’s refusal to give anyone anymore ammunition. It’s fury. 

The presentation ends. Hermann considers standing, walking away, pretending he was never here. But he can’t stop looking at Newton, still sitting up there at the table, his hands folded tightly, his foot bouncing. Newton is looking at nothing, staring vacantly at the space to Hermann’s right. He’s chewing on his lip. Hermann watches him, dazed. 

And then Newton’s gaze snaps to the side, as if drawn there magnetically, and their eyes catch. Hermann’s heart seizes. Newton stands up abruptly, mouth hanging open. 

Hermann thinks he might have run away, in that moment, if his legs would just work properly. But he’s caught by surprise, fumbling for his cane, trying to find his feet. He barely even clears the row of seats before—

“Hermann,” Newton says, voice high, almost breaking. “What are you doing here?”

Hermann’s throat bobs as he lifts his eyes to see Newton standing there, right in front of him. Just—right there. Three years of correspondence across the ocean, and suddenly he’s right here, a meter away, in a bustling conference room. Hermann’s heart threatens to leap out of his throat. “I. I came to watch. You.”

Newton’s face is still red. He scoffs, looks away. “Right, well. Bet that was a load of fun.”

Hermann swallows thickly. He’s sweating, just from being this close to Newton. He’s sweating and uncomfortable and Newton doesn’t look particularly excited to see him and—

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” Newton says, looking away from Hermann, hand scraping through his hair. It’s already wild, sticking out in every direction.

“Yes, well,” Hermann says unsteadily. “I wasn’t sure.”

“I haven’t heard from you in _weeks_ , dude,” Newton says. “How did you— I didn’t even know if you _knew_.” 

Hermann clears his throat. He _knew_ he should have said something. _Anything._ Now he just looks ridiculous. “I had some…things come up,” he says lamely. “I made it in the end.”

“Yeah, great,” Newton says, rolling his eyes, rubbing his hand up and down his forearm. “I’m so glad you made it.”

It feels like a slap to the face. Hermann nearly takes a step away at the sound of it, at the tone of his voice. Newton didn’t want him here. Newton never even asked to _see him_. Hermann’s such an idiot. 

“I thought you might appreciate the support,” he says crisply, angling his body away slightly. 

“Yeah, well, fat load of good that did me,” Newton mutters. “Fucking— Those bastards didn’t even let me _speak_.” 

_They were idiots_ , Hermann wants to tell him. _They didn’t see. They don’t know what you’re capable of._

He can’t seem to open his mouth. 

“This is— Fucking stupid.” Newton’s voice is shrill, too loud. People are looking at them. “I don’t even know why I fucking came here.” 

Hermann shares the sentiment. He’s never been more embarrassed in his life. 

“Anyway, whatever, right?” Newton barks out a laugh. “I was just an extra fucking body to fill a chair, so. Whatever. I got a free flight out of it, and. They got nothing from me. Dickheads.”

His voice—and coarse language, possibly—are drawing attention. Hermann is squirming under their scrutiny. “Could you lower your voice, a little?” he asks, eyes darting to the people around them. The conference is on a break, but there are still people milling around. Looking at them. 

“Wh— Dude, _seriously?_ ” His voice gets, if anything, shriller. “That’s all you have to say about this?”

Hermann’s face goes hot. He glances at Newton—finds his eyes wild, his cheeks red. He has freckles. Hermann has never noticed he has freckles before. “You speak—very loudly,” he fumbles to say. 

“Yeah, so that people will _fucking_ listen to me,” Newton says. 

Hermann knows this. He knows that Newton is just trying to be heard. He doesn’t know why he said that. 

“Anyway, are we getting out of here or what?” Newton says. And then, “I can’t believe you came to this _fucking_ conference.”

Hermann burns with humiliation. “Yes, well, I’m beginning to regret it now.”

“Yeah, I should hope so,” Newton mutters. “At least I got in for free. Did you pay for this?” He flicks at Hermann’s tametag. 

Hermann jerks away from his hand on instinct, and nearly loses his footing. Newton stares at him for a moment, and just for a millisecond, his gaze skips down to Hermann’s cane, clutched tightly in his hand. 

For a flashing second, Hermann wants to hit him with it. “I did, yes,” he bites out. “Unfortunately I think it may be too late to ask for a refund.”

Newton just stares for him a second longer. His jaw works, but his eyes are wide, that same ridiculous green that’s been haunting Hermann for years. It’s never made Hermann feel like this before—exposed, defenseless. Ashamed of what he might be seeing. 

Newton opens his mouth. “Okay, but at least there’s one benefit to coming, right?”

Hermann sniffs, straightens the cuffs of his sleeves, just to have something to look at, something other than Newton’s piercing, expectant eyes. “I don’t see how,” he says stiffly. 

The eyes blink. “I mean, you’re here, with your frumpy, old-man clothes—”

And somehow, hearing that here, right now, after Hermann agonized over his clothes for the first time in his life and decided—idiotically—that they didn’t matter, and came all the way here, unwanted, just to hear this, from _Newton_ — 

It’s far from the first time Newton has teased him about his clothes. He’s done so in nearly every letter that follows a photo or video sent to him by Hermann. And maybe it’s even the same words Newton would have used in those letters, but there’s an edge of hardness to Newton’s voice not present in his letters, a tone beyond teasing and near enough to mocking that Hermann can’t stand it. He won’t stand for it. 

“Don’t you dare say anything about my clothes, Mr. Geiszler,” he says acidly, narrowing his eyes as he looks back at Newton. “You’re wearing sneakers at a conference, for god’s sake. Have some self-respect.” And then, because he’s angry and embarrassed and _stupid_ , he says, “No wonder no one took you seriously.”

Something flashes in Newton’s eyes, then, something like shock and pain and fear, and then it’s quickly covered up by something so blank it makes Hermann’s stomach hurt. “Wow, Hermann,” he says, voice flat. “Don’t pull any punches on my account.”

“I’m just saying, you rather made a fool of yourself—”

“I fucking know, okay!” Newton says, eyes wild once again. “God, I _know_. I didn’t even ask you to come to the fucking conference!”

Hermann flushes hot with humiliation. “Well, I’m sorry for coming to—show support.”

“Good! I didn’t want you to!” Newton pushes up his glasses to rub his palms hard into his eyes. 

“Well, rest assured it will never happen again,” Hermann says, heart crumpling in his chest. 

Newton scoffs, eyes bright and cheeks red. “I always knew you’d be fucking overdramatic.”

Hermann draws himself up to his full height, a good four inches taller than Newton. He has been stepped on his entire life. He will not allow Newton to do the same. “And I always knew you to be an overgrown child,” he says—and it’s true, but it has always inspired exasperated fondness until today. “If you can’t offer me a shred of respect—”

Newton cuts him off, which nearly makes Hermann see red, especially when it’s to say, “Oh, fuck off, I’m just fucking _disappointed_.”

Hermann feels like someone has crushed his heart under the heel of their boot. All of his worst nightmares are coming true. Three years leading up to this moment, and it has gone as perfectly terribly as he could have ever imagined. “Newton,” he says quietly, jaw clenched. “ _I_ am the one who is disappointed today.”

Newton’s chin jerks up, hurt flashing in his eyes. “What the fuck, Hermann,” he says, voice finally lowering to an acceptable decibel. “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

He turns around and walks out of the room. 

Hermann has never felt so stupid in his life.

~

Hermann doesn’t make it past the stairs of the hotel. He plans to—to storm all the way back to the train station, and then fume all the way home, and then burn Newton’s letters, or some such thing. It seems like the only thing to do, when he harbours an enormous crush on someone for three years, and then meets him in person and is immediately humiliated. 

But all he manages to do is stomp unsteadily to the front lobby of the hotel, out the door, down a single step, and then his shaky legs give out on him and he falls hard on his rear on the stone stairs as hot, shameful tears spring to his eyes. He pretends it’s from the dull pain in his tailbone. 

It is not. 

God, he just. He can’t believe he allowed this to happen. He can’t believe he let himself be sucked in by Newton’s open admiration—by his _recognition_ —three years ago. He can’t believe he let himself develop _feelings_. He should have known it would end like this. No one likes Hermann in person. He’s too—too stiff, too uncomfortable, too. Too smart, generally. Too strange. 

But Newton is stiff and strange, too. Hermann had thought, naively, that they would be a good match. He can’t believe he was wrong. 

All he can think about is Newton’s horrified expression when he saw Hermann in the crowd, and the way his eyes had dragged over Hermann’s clothes and Hermann’s cane, and his harsh voice saying he was disappointed. 

Hermann had only ever hoped he wouldn’t be disappointed. 

He feels absolutely pathetic and ridiculous, sitting on the top step of the hotel stoop, eyes burning, hands trembling. He rubs at his eyes harshly, shakes himself, tries to gather his wits, and fails. 

He fumbles his phone out of his pocket and dials a number he was told to only use in the event of an emergency. 

“Karla,” he says when his sister picks up, voice hitching. “He hates me.”

“What?” Karla says. “Why? What did you say?”

“I don’t know,” Hermann says, pathetically. “I don’t know. I was just there and he looked at me and—”

“He _looked_ at you? Hermann, did you _see him?_ ” 

“He’s in Munich for a presentation,” Hermann says, and his voice is all shaky and wet. “I went to see him.”

“And you didn’t _tell me?_ ” Karla asks, appalled. 

“I only just decided to go at the last minute!” Hermann says. “And apparently I shouldn’t have! Karla, he _hated me._ On sight.”

“That’s ridiculous. It doesn’t make sense at all.”

Hermann rubs his palm roughly over his eyes. “He told me I shouldn’t have come,” he says. “And he made fun of my clothes. And he said he was—disappointed.” It hurts to say it. 

“Oh, _Brüderchen_ ,” Karla sighs. “I don’t know what to say. He sounds like an asshole to me.”

Hermann sniffs, rubs his sore leg. “I don’t know,” he says, because he still doesn’t want to agree. He still doesn’t know if it’s true. 

“I’m sorry, Hermann,” Karla says, and it makes Hermann want to cry. His eyes burn fiercely. “I know this must be hard for you.”

Hermann exhales shakily. “I just wanted him to like me,” he says, pitiful and childish. “And he doesn’t and it’s so. Typical and embarrassing and. Disappointing.”

“I know,” Karla says, voice gentle. “Do you want me to come to Munich and kill him?”

Hermann barks out a wet laugh. “No, thank you.”

“Your call,” Karla says. And then, “So what are you going to do about the symposium?”

Hermann blinks silently for a moment, and then he says, with feeling, “Oh, fuck.”

The symposium. In two months, he is set to fly to Australia, where he will be _sharing a room_ with Newton, for a _week_. They’ve bought the tickets. They’ve paid for the room. 

“I’ll call you back,” he says to Karla, and hangs up before she can reply. 

They have to—cancel or something. He doesn’t know. But Hermann can’t—he can’t go through with this as planned. Not anymore. 

For the first time in four days, Hermann opens his email, to send Newton a message, to tell him to call off the trip. But when he opens his inbox, he finds a series of emails waiting for him, unread. 

_From: Newt Geiszler  
Subject: RE: DID YOU GET MY LETTER???_

_Hermann??? Dude it’s in three days so you better answer soon! Are you, like, free and stuff? Because I’m only doing that one presentation and otherwise I’m a free man. I could come to Berlin if you want? Or you can come to Munich? I get there the night of the 22nd and then I leave on the 24th sometime so yeah LET ME KNOW._

_From: Newt Geiszler  
Subject: RE: RE: DID YOU GET MY LETTER???_

_HELLO??? Are you dead? Please tell me you’re not dead. I’m leaving tomorrow dude. Since when do you not check your email every day? And why didn’t we ever exchange phone numbers?? Anyway LET ME KNOW WHAT THE PLAN IS PLEASE. I’m trying to get out of this networking thing on the evening of the 23rd haha. Save me._

_From: Newt Geiszler  
Subject: RE: RE: RE: DID YOU GET MY LETTER???_

_HERMANN my flight leaves in 12 HOURS MY MAN…… CHECK YOUR EMAIL YOU DICK_

_From: Newt Geiszler  
Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: DID YOU GET MY LETTER???_

_Okay I’m like. Leaving for the airport now so. Getting kinda worried about you man. Let me know what’s up? Are you okay? I was really hoping we could hang out a bit while I’m in the country. Hope you’re not dead. I won’t have a phone but I’m at the hotel that the conference is at, room 316. If you want to call my room or something. Drop me a line please._

Hermann swallows thickly. Newton had sounded so excited to meet him. This whole time, Newton has sounded so excited to meet him. How was he supposed to know it would go so badly. 

It’s best to just get it over with, he tells himself, sniffing and struggling back to his feet. No sense in dragging it out. It’ll just make things worse if he has to wait for Newton’s reply, for his agreement. And Newton told him his room number. Hermann might as well use it. 

The elevator ride up to the third floor is excruciatingly long and slow. Hermann’s stomach lurches as the elevator stops, and the doors open. He steps out into a carpeted hallway that smells faintly of potpourri. His heart thuds in his throat. 

316\. He takes a steadying breath. Best to just get it over with, he tells himself again. 

He knocks. 

“Go away,” comes Newton’s hoarse voice from within. 

Hermann almost complies. But he’s come all this way, and he’s already here, and. Perhaps, masochistically, he’d like one last look at Newton before they part ways forever. He opens his mouth, fails to find his voice, and knocks again. 

“Go _away_ , I don’t want fucking housekeeping or whatever,” Newton says, more forcefully. 

Hermann huffs, inhales deeply. Maybe it’s best that he doesn’t reveal himself. Newton might not answer the door if he knew. He knocks one more time. 

The door swings open viciously, and Newton stands on the other side, eyes red and swollen like he’s been crying. Hermann blinks, swallows thickly. 

Newton stares at him for a moment, mouth slightly agape, and then says, “What the fuck?”

Hermann clears his throat, feeling heat creep up his neck. He hopes, desperately, that he does not look similarly wrecked. “I. I realized I needed to speak with you.”

Newton looks at him incredulously. Apart from his red eyes, his cheeks are flushed, and his fingers are clenched tight around the hem of his shirt—something soft and loose that he’s swapped for his button-down. Hermann wants to pry his fingers loose. He wants to stare at his face forever. Newton opens his mouth and says, “How the hell did you even find me?”

Oh. “You told me. In your email.”

Newton scoffs, and the sound is rough, like his throat is raw. “So you did get them.”

Hermann swallows hard. “Just now.”

“How did you know I would even be at this conference if you just got them now?” Newton asks—demands, eyes flashing. 

This is going so much worse than Hermann even imagined. “I’d seen the first one. I just read the others— It’s not important. I just came to talk about. The symposium.”

Newton’s face, previously tight with fury, goes slack. “Oh, shit.”

Hermann sniffs. “Indeed.”

“Well, we’ll just.” Newton avoids his gaze, eyes flicking up towards the ceiling as he runs his hands through his hair. “Shit. We’ll just.”

“I didn’t buy—cancellation insurance. For my flight,” Hermann says through a clenched jaw. He’s stiff as a board with discomfort, and he can’t stop glancing back at Newton’s wildly messy hair. God, it’s just. Shocking, to see him up close and in person. 

“Yeah, me neither,” Newton says, throat bobbing. “And I want to go to the fucking symposium.”

“As do I,” Hermann says. 

“Yeah, well, sure. And I already bought my ticket for that, too.”

Hermann nods. So did he. 

“It’s a big fucking symposium,” Newton says. “We don’t even have to. You won’t even see me. I’ll be— I’ll just go and you can go and it doesn’t fucking matter, it’s a big place and you won’t have to. Fucking look at me.”

Newton doesn’t curse quite this much in his letters. Hermann wonders if it’s a verbal tic, or if it’s the product of his obvious agitation. “Fair enough,” he grinds out. 

“It’s just—” Newton drags his hand through his hair. “I already booked the hotel room.”

“I’m aware,” Hermann says. 

“The place is totally booked up by now,” Newton says. “The things in two months. Everything’s booked up.”

Hermann exhales tightly. 

“Dude, I don’t know!” Newton says, as if Hermann’s spoken. “Like, I can’t afford the room on my own if you bail? I don’t know, I could— ask if anyone else needed a roommate, or. What are you going to do?”

“Well, I don’t know,” Hermann says, and hates himself for the way his eyes are still raking over Newton even as the man seethes at him, hates himself for greedily drinking in the tightly coiled compactness of Newton’s frame, the beginnings of stubble along his jaw, the otherworldly green of his eyes. Like a man dying of thirst. “I can’t afford a room on my own, either.”

Newton sighs harshly. “I thought your family was rich, dude.”

“My _parents_ are wealthy,” Hermann says, grinding his teeth together. “That means nothing about the state of my own bank account. I’m a student, for god’s sake.”

“Okay, fine,” Newton says, as if he’s being the better man by giving up the argument. “Whatever. So what are we supposed to do, just still stay in the same room all week?”

The idea is horrifying to Hermann, who was already nervous about the arrangement _before_ he found out Newton can’t stand him. He almost considers it a reasonable waste of money to cancel after all. 

But what comes out of his mouth, wound up and frustrated and crushed as he is, is, “If I can last a week without strangling you.”

Newton jerks back as if slapped. His eyes burn when he turns them on Hermann. “Whatever, man. There might be a reason why all your boarding school roommates hated you, you know.”

It’s a pointed attack. Hermann deeply regrets ever telling Newton about his history at boarding school and, indeed, every personal thing he’s ever shared in the past three years. “As if you were the best friend of all of your classmates,” he bites back. 

“At least that was because I had undiagnosed mental fucking issues,” Newton says. “You were just a bitch.”

“As if you know anything about me,” Hermann spits. 

“I’ve learned enough in the past hour, thanks,” Newton says, fire in his eyes. 

Hermann clenches his jaw. “Yes, well. I’ll be going, then. I’ve said what I came to say.”

“Much appreciated, dude,” Newton says, sarcasm so thick it’s caustic. “Just— _so_ great seeing you again.”

“Figure out what to do about the hotel,” Hermann tells him. 

“You’d fucking better,” Newton shoots back.

The door slams between them. In the ensuing silence, Hermann draws a shaky breath. 

His eyes water the entire train trip home.


	3. Part Three: Symposium

They do not figure it out. 

They do not speak at all, for two entire months. No letters. No emails. The symposium hangs over Hermann’s head like a dark cloud, a constant knot of anxiety in his stomach, but he doesn’t write to Newton. He doesn’t dare. 

He tucks the letters he already has into his closet. He tosses the photos of Newton that he’s accumulated on his corkboard into the bottom of a desk drawer. He replaces them with books, academic articles, copies of his dissertation that he’s supposed to be writing. He does not think about Newton. 

This is a lie. He thinks about Newton constantly, just out of sheer habit. Every time something even vaguely interesting happens to him, his mind whirs with the familiar thought, _I’ll have to tell Newton about this_. He stomps down on it every time he notices, feels a cold ache around his chest when it registers. His brain is hardwired to think about Newton, after all this time. It takes a fair bit of getting used to, not being...allowed to, anymore. 

He still does, sometimes. Foolishly. In his darkest moments, he lies on his bed in the night and lets himself think about Newton, his face and his eyes and his smile, lets himself imagine that smile turning on Hermann, as it never once has been. Imagines how things might have gone, if Newton hadn’t—hadn’t hated him. 

“Hermann, this isn’t healthy,” Karla tells him, when he calls her for the third time in as many weeks. “Stop pretending you’re okay. You’ve called me more in the past month than you do in a year sometimes.”

“That’s not true,” Hermann says gruffly, but it’s not far off. 

“You’re allowed to be lonely, you know,” Karla tells him. “You’re allowed to come to terms that. And then go out and, I don’t know, meet someone?”

Hermann sniffs. He doesn’t want to meet someone. He had already met the only person he’d ever really wanted. And they hadn’t wanted him back. “I just. Miss him.”

“I’m proud of you for having and admitting to such a deeply human emotion,” Karla tells him, at once equally sympathetic and teasing. Karla doesn’t know any other way to be. It comes as the result of growing up in an emotionally challenged family. 

“I am perfectly self-aware, Karla,” he says, just to avoid talking about his feelings anymore. 

“That is such an enormous lie I’m surprised it fits in your mouth,” Karla tells him. “You still haven’t even admitted you’re in love with him.”

 _Was_ , Hermann wants to say, but then he’d have to admit to the fact that he ever was, and that hurts too much, and is altogether humiliating besides. 

“I just don’t know what to do,” he sighs instead. 

“You could try _talking_ to him,” Karla suggests. “You know, like a well-adjusted adult.”

“Make up your mind—am I well-adjusted or emotionally stunted?”

“Oh, definitely the latter,” Karla says. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t strive for betterment.”

Hermann scoffs. “I can’t just— I don’t _want_ to talk to him.”

“That can only end in disaster, Hermann. You’re setting yourself up for failure.”

Hermann shrugs, sighs. “It’s in a week,” he says, and fear coils tight in his stomach at the thought of it. “Maybe he’s already gotten it sorted.”

“And not told you?” Karla asks incredulously. 

Hermann purses his lips. He wouldn’t put it past Newton, to hold a grudge large enough that he would let Hermann walk into the symposium unaware of the plan. He wouldn’t put it past himself, really. 

But that’s not true. Hermann’s not even angry, anymore. Not if he’s being honest. He’s not angry. He was only angry for—for a week, at most. After that he was just...sad. And disappointed. 

And lonely. 

He still doesn’t write to Newton. The day of his flight arrives, and he goes to the airport, as planned. 

There is a part of him that is still excited to go, that is still eagerly anticipating everything he will learn, everything he will see and hear. But it’s overshadowed by anxiety, and by something like mourning. A few months ago, he had been looking forward to experiencing this alongside Newton. He misses that feeling, and he misses that possibility. 

He arrives at the airport with hours to spare—it’s his first time flying overseas, and he may have overcompensated in his inexperience. It’s horrifically early, and he barely slept the night before, his mind spinning with all the ways in which this might be a terrible idea. As a result, he’s tired, and his head hurts, and his leg hurts, and he hasn’t eaten breakfast. He checks his baggage, makes it through security, finds his gate. And then he sits down, eyes aching, skull pounding, to wait for the first of two flights that will, over the course of twenty-five hours, take him to Sydney. 

He begins to regret this entire thing. How much can he really benefit from a symposium on space exploration, anyway? It’s not like he’s ever going to experience it firsthand. 

His stomach growls loudly, and Hermann sighs, gets up to find an overpriced breakfast sandwich or croissant or something. 

He drops his wallet when he takes it out to pay for his food and coffee, his hands clumsy with sleep deprivation. He grumbles tiredly, begins the arduous process of kneeling to pick it up. His eyes are a little bleary, but he sees the slip of paper that’s fallen out, picks that up too as he stands with a groan. 

It’s a photo. It’s Newton’s photo—the one of him with the beaker, that Hermann put in his wallet at least a year and a half ago, now. He used to look at it constantly—he’d forgotten about it, now, since Munich. Otherwise he would have gotten rid of it. 

He swallows hard, pays the cashier quickly for his food and takes it quickly back to his gate. He sits down, and looks at the photo again. Newton is grinning broadly, dressed in a white lab coat and holding his beaker aloft, as if in victory. It’s a ridiculous photo—Newton had never provided context, but Hermann has always assumed it was staged, for some sort of...photoshoot, or something equally ludicrous. But regardless, he’s always liked the intensity of Newton’s smile, and the glint in his eyes, and the utterly unabashed way he holds himself. That familiar, overconfident swagger. Hermann had always rather wanted a piece of it, for himself. 

Had wanted a piece of Newton for himself. 

He sighs, tucks the photo away to eat. No use thinking about that now. 

His flights to Sydney are hell. Hermann is terrible at sleeping on planes—even, it seems, when they are long enough for a full night’s sleep. He dozes fitfully at most, and spends a five-hour layover in Singapore in exhausted agony, trying and failing to get more than five minutes of sleep at a time while slumped in an uncomfortable airport chair. His leg aches terribly, and his head pounds, and his neck develops a hellish crick. Hermann weighs the pros and cons of not having to face Newton at the hotel if he just dies here in the airport. 

On his second flight, there’s a toddler in the row behind him, and it cries for at least three hours straight. Hermann grits his teeth and accepts free earbuds from the flight attendant who walks by, plugging them into his phone and turning up the limited music he has on it. 

The familiar strains of _Monsters on the Golden Gate Bridge_ —Kaiju Blue’s absolute worst song—filter through atrocious speakers, and Hermann is so tired that it makes tears spring to his eyes. It’s really, just—it’s such an appallingly bad song. Hermann hates it so much. And he knows every single word. And he knows every inflection of Newton’s voice. And he barely ever even got to hear Newton’s voice, but he still misses it, somehow. 

Hermann misses him. 

He’s going to see him again in a matter of hours. 

He’s back to being terrified.

~

It’s mid-evening in Sydney by the time Hermann finally, finally reaches the hotel, which is attached to the convention centre. It was more expensive to stay here than to get a hotel closeby, but Hermann hadn’t been about to risk ruining every day at the symposium by starting it with a fifteen-minute walk from another hotel. He's grateful for this decision—and that Newton hadn't tried to talk him out of it—when he arrives outside the hotel and sees how hilly the surrounding area is. His leg never would have lasted.

 _Hermann_ is barely lasting, now, as he stumbles off the bus that took him here from the airport, jetlagged to hell and back. It's spring in Sydney, and the evening is soft and cool, the sky twilight-dark and the sounds of the city muffled. Hermann breathes in deeply, waits for the bus driver to haul his trunk out of the compartment under the bus, cane clutched tightly in his hand. He's so tired, and the night is so gentle, so inviting. The hotel lights twinkle in front of his unfocused eyes. He wants, desperately, to sink into bed. He thinks he'll sleep for an entire day.

He receives his trunk from the bus driver, and drags it with some difficulty through the front doors of the hotel, leaning heavily on his cane, leg stiff and aching.

"Hermann Gottlieb," he says at the counter, tongue heavy in his mouth. "Might be booked under Geiszler. G-E-I-S-Z-L-E-R."

"Ah, yes, here you are," the desk attendant says pleasantly, typing into her computer. "Room 6124. Your partner has already checked in."

Hermann swallows thickly. "Ah. Yes. Thank you."

"Here's your key card, Mr. Gottlieb. Would you like help bringing your bags up?"

"No thank you, I'm quite capable," Hermann says, already thinking of the room, of the man inside it.

He barely hears her wishing him an enjoyable stay, already limping towards the elevator, in a sort of daze of bone-deep exhaustion and terror. He takes the elevator up to the sixth floor, stomach turning. A sort of numbness sinks into him as he looks for his room number. 6118. 6120. He turns a corner. 6122.

6124\. Hermann stares at it for a long time.

He lifts his key card, and finds his hand shaking. He licks his lips, draws a deep breath. He refuses to walk in looking like he's one sudden noise away from bursting into tears or something equally humiliating.

He takes another two bracing breaths, and then touches his keycard to the sensor, watches the light flick to green. He pushes the door open.

Newton is standing just inside, legs bare and jeans in his hands, ostensibly having just taken them off. He's staring at Hermann with eyes that shouldn't be so wide, and his glasses are a little crooked, his hair tousled. His lips are parted, like he's surprised, but he can't be, because this was the plan all along. This was never not the plan. He should have been expecting Hermann.

Hermann clears his throat and steps inside. "Mr. Geiszler," he says, keeping his voice flat and even, despite its great desire to waver.

Newton blinks twice, and then says, of all things, "It's Doctor, now."

Hermann frowns. "What?"

"It's Doctor. Geiszler." Newton drops the jeans, stands there awkwardly in brightly patterned boxer briefs. Hermann really wishes he would put something else on.

His meaning sinks in. "You defended your thesis?"

Newton nods curtly, then looks at Hermann as if he's challenging him to doubt him.

Hermann doesn't. " _When?_ "

"'Bout a month ago," Newton says, and twitches his nose, eyes darting around the room.

Hermann wonders if he's always this fidgety, or if it's just when Hermann is around. "I had no idea," he says, and he hates that—that he didn't know, that things are happening in Newton's life without him knowing. He used to always _know_.

"I didn't want to tell you," Newton says with a sniff. "In case. I mean."

In case it hadn't turned out. It's an absurd notion. The odds of Newton _not_ passing his oral defense are...slim to none. He's brilliant. He's a genius. He is MIT's second-youngest student, and it's because he's a _genius_ , and he still doubted he would pass his oral defense.

Hermann does not say this. A flare of anger chokes him, and he's not really sure of the cause—whether it's because Newton didn't tell him, or because Hermann is so hurt by it. He huffs. "Well. Congratulations, Dr. Geiszler."

Immediately, Newton glowers. "Don't call me that."

"You were the one who corrected me," Hermann points out stiffly, pulling his trunk through the door and shutting it behind him. There's no need for anyone else to witness this.

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I want you to call me by my fucking title, like we're—like we're _strangers_."

Hermann swallows hard and musters every ounce of cold ambivalence in his body just to cover up the thick pain in his throat when he says, "I rather thought we _were_ strangers. Dr. Geiszler."

Newton's eyes flash with something that must be anger. "Oh my god, fuck you, dude. Forget it. I'm going to bed."

A hundred words almost jump unbidden from Hermann's mouth. _How was your flight_ , he wants to ask, _how was your layover? Did you get sick on the plane like you said you would? Did you catch your connecting flight all right? Have you eaten, have you slept?_

He clenches his jaw, swallows them down. He doesn't get to ask those questions anymore.

He's still looking, vaguely, in Newton's direction, and sees him stripping off his shirt before Hermann can look away. He glances back, against his will, to see a broad back, freckled shoulders, a softness around his middle that Hermann wants, viscerally, to touch.

He also sees a tattoo he's never seen before, just under and curling around his elbow. His tattoos are all of monsters, mostly stylized art of Godzilla, Cthulhu, Mothra. Creatures from his comic books and bad movies from the 90s. He'd sent Hermann pictures, once, of the ones on his biceps and upper back. Said he was planning on getting sleeves, and all the way down his torso, eventually. Had told Hermann every time he got a new one, or planned on getting a new one, and would send him doodles of what he wanted them to look like. Had sent Hermann a photo, once, of an outlined piece on his ribs. Hermann had nearly had a heart attack.

He'd kept them to his upper arms in the past, so that he could cover them easily with sleeves. Said he would start going lower once he had his PhD. So it makes sense. In a way that makes Hermann's chest ache. It makes sense that he wouldn't know about this one.

"Stop looking at me," Newton snaps suddenly, and Hermann jerks his eyes away from him, face hot with humiliation. It's bad enough by far that Newton dislikes him—it would be unimaginably worse if he knew how attracted Hermann is to him, even still. Not to mention the—the crush.

"You don't have to change in the middle of the room," Hermann says crisply, as if it's Newton's fault that he was looking.

"It's my room too, dude," Newton gripes, pulling on another, softer shirt. The same one he was wearing in his hotel room when Hermann had gone to find him after the conference, two months ago. He still remembers. And then Newton mutters, "Could have told me you thought I was gross before I sent you a shitton of pictures of myself, god."

Hermann stops where he was walking towards the bed free of Newton's luggage, closer to the window, and blinks. "I didn't say— _gross_."

"Gross, ugly, repulsive, whatever," Newton says, staunchly avoiding his gaze as he roots around in his luggage. 

“I didn’t—” Hermann stops, bites his tongue. Maybe it’s better not to protest so strongly. Instead he just says, “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Oh, _I’m_ the ridiculous one,” Newton says, giving up on his luggage without ever taking anything out. “I’m taking a shower.”

“You need not announce it to me,” Hermann says, finally making it to his bed for the week and dropping his trunk at the foot. 

“Just wanted to let you know in case you needed the bathroom.” Hermann can hear the eyeroll in his voice. “I’ll try to be less courteous in the future.”

Hermann scoffs, keeps his eyes on his bed until he hears the bathroom door close. 

It’s only then that he lets his shoulders slump, his eyes burn. So much for being pleasantly surprised.

~

Hermann sleeps like the dead, right up until four in the morning, when his body decides that it’s the appropriate time to be wide awake.

It’s still dark outside their hotel window, a soft glow coming in between the curtains from the city. Hermann huffs into the silence, rolls over gingerly, his hip aching. He closes his eyes against the glare of the alarm clock next to his bed, tries to fall back asleep. But it’s no use. It’s evening in Berlin, and Hermann’s body has no idea why he’s trying to sleep through the day, despite the fact that he’s still running on a deficit. He tries, momentarily, to calculate the number of hours he’s slept in the past several days, but he can’t seem to wrap his head around the timezones. It’s humiliating. Mathematics are his _specialty_. 

He’s still thinking about that—trying to bully his brain into either figuring it out or at least succumbing to sleep—when he hears a sound from across the room, and Newton rises from his own bed with a groan. Hermann smiles slightly, automatically, at Newton being in the same situation as him, being awake at this ungodly hour despite wanting to be anything but. And then he remembers their exchange the previous evening, and indeed every exchange they’ve had in person thus far, and the smile disappears. This is not how he imagined his first night in the same bedroom as Newton would go. 

And if he’s being honest, Hermann has imagined such a thing _many_ times, and very rarely has it been realistic. 

Newton shuffles across the room slowly, knocks into a side table, curses softly, and then disappears into the bathroom. The moment he does, Hermann realizes how badly _he_ needs to use the bathroom, and he begins squirming restlessly on his bed. It’s absurd, because a moment ago he hadn’t even noticed, but now it feels as though Newton is taking _hours_ to come out, and Hermann is suffering. He gets out of his own bed clumsily, moves to stand just outside the bathroom door, leaning against the wall in the absence of his cane. Mornings are usually the worst time for his leg, which gets stiff during the night and aches until he can stretch out the muscles, and it’s worse now, after the hell of yesterday’s travel. He’s already thinking ahead to his day, navigating crowded convention halls, sitting in uncomfortable chairs during panels. He should do some stretches before he goes down for breakfast. 

On the floor. In his room. Which he shares with Newton. 

He’s still thinking about this when the bathroom door swings open—he missed the sound of the toilet flushing and the tap running—and Newton nearly runs directly into him, sleep-rumpled and tired-eyed, squinting without his glasses on. 

“Uh,” Newton says, staring at him. 

Hermann swallows thickly, feeling exposed in his pajamas, despite the fact that they cover as much skin as his usual clothes. Newton, for his part, should be the one feeling exposed. 

And maybe he is, with the way he fidgets, shoulders hunched and one hand hovering vaguely in front of his groin, as if Hermann can see anything through his low-hanging shirt, as if Hermann is _looking_. 

Hermann opens his mouth to say something, to say _good morning_ like he would in any other situation with any other person, and then he closes it quickly. Thus far speaking has only resulted in harsh words and raised voices, and Hermann feeling wretched for it. Perhaps silence is the wiser choice. 

Newton seems to agree, because he moves to maneuver around Hermann without another word, eyes averted. Hermann clears his throat, tries to move out of his way and towards the bathroom door, and only succeeds in bumping against him, their arms brushing. Somehow, that single second of contact is electric. Hermann jerks away quickly, limps into the bathroom without looking at Newton. He hopes he was the only one who felt it. 

The rest of the morning—which is unfathomably long, when one wakes up at four o’clock—passes by in a similar fashion. They sit around in silence, moving stiffly when they must, keeping to their own sides of the room, barely acknowledging each other apart from quick glances they both pretend not to steal. Hermann changes into proper clothes—in the bathroom—almost at once, while Newton continues to lounge in his sleepwear. Hermann taps quietly at his laptop, trying fruitlessly to get some work done while he can, while Newton listens to something entirely too loud even through his bulky headphones, and appears to play some sort of online card game, from what Hermann can tell. It’s rather ridiculous, and Hermann wants, instinctively, to snap at him for it. He’s not even sure what he would snap about—the loud music, or the waste of time, or Newton’s state of undress. None of them are rational. Especially not the waste of time, he supposes. Newton has passed his oral defense. He’s graduated. 

Hermann wants, suddenly, _desperately_ , to ask him what he plans to do next. What he’s going to do with his PhD. They never discussed it. He wants to know. 

He does not ask. 

Hermann’s stomach starts growling by five, but the complimentary breakfast isn’t served until 6:30—he checks. So he sits there and suffers and hopes for Newton to leave the room so that he can do his stretches without an audience, to no avail. So he moves, keenly aware of Newton’s gaze flicking up to him, from the armchair on the wall opposite his bed to the floor, legs stretched out in front of him, face warm. He executes his stretches quickly, methodically, taking as little time as possible in order to reap the benefits. He goes a little _too_ quickly, feels the twinge of a protesting muscle, and hisses through his teeth, rubs out his thigh. He feels like Newton is watching him, even though, when he looks up, the other man’s eyes are on his laptop screen. 

The clock ticks to 6:25. Hermann stands up to find his shoes, his cane. 

Almost instantaneously, Newton slides out of his bed, appears to do the same. 

“Is that what you’re wearing out?” Hermann asks before he can stop himself, eyes dragging, regrettably, over Newton’s t-shirt and boxer briefs and bare legs. 

“Is that what _you’re_ wearing out?” Newton shoots back, cocking an eyebrow at him pointedly. As if Hermann’s outfit isn’t perfectly presentable. 

As if, two years ago, Newton hadn’t essentially called his “fancy little outfit” _cute_. It had embarrassed Hermann then, but in a very different way than this embarrasses him. He sniffs, turns to the door. 

When Newton joins him at the elevator doors, he’s wearing a pair of skinny jeans, under the same shirt he slept in. Neither of them say anything. 

They do not sit together at breakfast, though they get their food at the same time and sit...close to each other. They don’t look at each other—or at least, not much—and they don’t speak. At roughly the same time, they get up, return their used dishes to the counter, and return to their room. They wait, quietly, for nine o’clock, when registration for the symposium begins. They stand in line next to each other to receive their nametags and welcome bags. They sit at the same table—but _not_ together—for the opening address and the keynote speaker. 

It’s an incredible presentation. Hermann is in awe the entire time, scribbling down notes, soaking in knowledge. He remembers, for an hour, why he’s here, why he’s risking his pride and his sanity to be here. 

He applauds the speaker vigorously as they sit down, and glances, automatically, to his left, where Newton is sitting, eyes wide and captivated. The paper in front of Newton is covered in familiar scrawl, along with messy doodles, bizarre diagrams. Hermann wants, like an ache in his chest, to ask about them, to ask about Newton’s thoughts on the presentation. 

He does not. 

It turns out to be the theme of the day—Hermann wishing he could say something, but never once opening his mouth. He moves from session to session, panel to panel, sometimes the same ones as Newton and sometimes not. He learns, and he rhapsodizes on paper, and he stews with comments, critiques, _ideas_. He wishes he could share them. He wishes he could share them with Newton. 

It makes him angry. 

By the end of the first day of the symposium, Hermann feels exhausted, and it’s not just because it’s nine in the morning in Berlin and he woke up at four in the morning. He’s just—he’s _tired_. He has so many words stopped up in his throat, and whirling around his head, so many theories he’d like to talk out, grievances he’d like to air. He’d like to just be able to say, _isn’t this amazing? Isn’t this incredible?_

He takes advantage of Newton leaving their room in the early evening—to get dinner, Hermann assumes—to call Karla, just to have _someone_ to talk to. He ignores the fact that he never used to _need_ someone to talk to. 

“Hermann, you are a miserable bastard,” Karla tells him, smiling slightly through the screen. She’s obviously using her phone for this call, her image shaky and small. “You have half an hour to moan to me, and then I’m hanging up on you.”

“I’m not going to _moan_ ,” Hermann says, frowning. “I’m. I wanted to tell you about the symposium.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Karla says. 

“Really, it’s brilliant,” Hermann insists. “You could learn a lot.”

“Yes, because space theory is so beneficial in neuroscience,” Karla says. 

“Well, some of us enjoy broadening our horizons,” Hermann says, despite the fact that, before Newton, he was wholly focused on robotics and engineering. 

“So you’re definitely not here talking to me when I should be marking midterms because you’re sad that the boy you like is ignoring you and that he’s not the man of your dreams?”

Hermann scoffs, avoiding her eyes. He does not say that the fact that Newton is the man of his dreams has not changed—just his feelings about it. “You said I have half an hour,” he says. “Stop interrupting me.”

Karla rolls her eyes, but doesn’t say anything else. 

Hermann spends at least the next fifteen minutes relating the day’s sessions, the things he learned and the theories they explored. Karla understands very little of it—has never had much interest in space, though Hermann has never been able to fathom why—but she listens intently, or at least makes sounds like she is. For a moment, Hermann loves his sister more fiercely than he thought he was capable of. 

“Alright, well,” she says, when Hermann pauses to look at his notes to see what he’s missed. “Now tell _him_ all of these things.”

Hermann makes an incredulous sound, caught off guard. “Why would I?”

“Because you’re an adult capable of human communication?” Karla tries. 

“He doesn’t want to speak to me,” Hermann says firmly. “ _I_ don’t want to speak to _him._ ” 

“I’m sure,” Karla says. “I just wonder if, perhaps, there has been some miscommunication somewhere along the line.”

“He was quite clear about how he felt about me,” Hermann says, swallowing around it. 

“Yes, and I’m sure you were, too,” Karla says, arching an eyebrow. 

Hermann does not deign to respond to that, disappointment thick once more in his throat, the way it always is when he thinks about his interactions with Newton thus far. 

“I just know that you don’t always make the best first impression, _Brüderchen_ ,” Karla says. 

“I hadn’t even said anything yet!” Hermann goes hot with shame and anger at the thought of it. “And we’ve known each other three years!”

“Exactly,” Karla says, slowly, like Hermann is particularly stupid. 

Before Hermann can begin to parse that, though, he hears a shuffle outside his hotel room door, and the lock beeps open. His heart hammers against his ribs. “I have to go,” he says quickly, scrambling to end the call. 

“Think about it,” Karla tells him. “Goodbye, Hermann. I love you.”

It’s not the first time she’s ever said so, but it happens rarely enough that Hermann is rather surprised, blinking at his screen as the call ends and Newton stares at him from the doorway, a takeout bag hanging from one hand. 

Hermann looks at him, and then quickly away, clearing his throat. He has no idea how much of that Newton heard, but he clearly heard some of it, because he’s looking at Hermann with a thousand questions in his eyes. 

He does not ask any of them. After a moment of tense silence, Newton merely closes the door behind himself, and then carries his food to his bed, where he starts taking out containers and digging in, right there on top of his pristine white blankets. It’s appalling, and also so familiarly _Newton_ that Hermann wants to throw something at him. 

The remainder of the evening passes agonizingly slowly. Hermann’s leg aches too fiercely for him to brave the streets to get food, so he eats an overpriced sandwich from the lobby market, away from Newton’s prying eyes, and then returns to his room to do more stretches while he pretends not to notice Newton looking at him. He’s miserable with jetlagged exhaustion, but he refuses to go to bed before nine, lest he wake up at four in the morning for the entire week. Once, he nearly decides to open his mouth and say something to Newton, anything to break the unbearable tension in their room, but when he looks up, Newton has his headphones on once again, blocking Hermann out. 

So much for Karla’s suggestion to communicate. He’s not going to speak if the other party doesn’t want to listen. 

By the time Hermann finally succumbs and changes into his nightclothes to go to bed, he’s utterly drained and frustrated, and he’s angry—just in general, but especially at Newton, for turning this week into something more painful than enjoyable. 

He sighs, and gets into bed. Only...six more days of this.

~

The second day of the symposium begins much the same. Hermann wakes up early—five o’clock this time—and tries not to stare at Newton in his pajamas. They go down for breakfast as early as they can, and don’t speak more than is absolutely necessary. They attend the morning’s sessions. Hermann doesn’t see much of Newton—he attends mostly theoretical physics sessions, and Newton is probably attending _Bio-Requirements for Space Settlement._ Hermann should be completely absorbed in the presentations, should be basking in it, but his mind wanders, even in Newton’s absence. It’s very annoying, and very tiring.

If anyone asks, he’ll blame that—the tiredness, maybe the clinging jetlag—for why, when he enters the dining hall for lunch and sees Newton frowning at the bowls of pasta, he opens his mouth and says, “Newton, there are gluten-free options at the other table.”

Newton’s head jerks up to look at him, eyes wide, lips parted. Hermann goes warm all over, clears his throat. “I saw it on my way in,” he adds, a tad more defensively than he means to. 

“Oh, um. Thanks.” Newton stumbles as he turns towards the dining hall entrance, as if he’s forgotten how big his feet are, and flails his arms a little, hitting someone unlucky enough to be passing by him to get their food. He stutters through an apology, voice too loud, and then scampers away to the other table, face red. 

Hermann nearly laughs, but doesn’t dare. Instead, he just quietly gets his food, and brings it to a fairly empty table, and begins to eat. 

A minute later, a chair on the other side—though not directly across—from Hermann is pulled out, and Newton drops into it. He doesn’t look at Hermann as he tucks into his meal. Hermann doesn’t say anything. 

Hermann feels strangely warm, and tries to stamp it out, because none of this means anything. 

Except maybe it does, because later that same day, Hermann spots Newton in the seats in another lecture—Mankind’s Future On Mars—as he’s searching for a seat in the packed audience, and finds one in the middle of the row directly in front of Newton, seven seats from the aisle. Hermann hesitates, because shuffling sideways is not his preferred direction of movement, and he tends to hit people with his cane—sometimes on purpose but not always—and he doesn’t want to draw attention to himself but the lecture is about to begin, and—

“Hey, geniuses,” Newton hisses suddenly, over the hushed conversation of the room. “How about you don’t leave gaps in the middle of the fucking row.”

A few people turn to look at him, mutter vaguely amongst themselves, and Hermann would roll his eyes at the rudeness, at the childishness, but—people begin to move, shuffling down the row so that the seat next to the aisle, next to _Hermann_ , is free. He sits down primly, clearing his throat, and faces the front of the room as the speaker walks up to the podium. And then, because he can’t help it, he turns, looks down the row behind him at Newton, whose eyes flick to him in return. Hermann’s face flames, but he nods slightly as he averts his gaze, and he sees Newton quirk something close to a smile in response, shrugging vaguely. As if he would have done the same for anyone. 

That warmth returns, and is harder to extinguish this time. It feels, foolishly, like hope. 

And that evening, around six, Newton breaks the heavy silence in their room to say, “I’m ordering takeout for pick-up.”

Hermann flicks his eyes up to him and hums vaguely, unsure why Newton’s announcing this to him. 

Newton rolls his eyes. “Do you want something?”

“Ah.” Hermann glances down to where he’s been massaging his upper thigh for the past ten minutes, and thinks about the steep hill just outside the hotel. “No,” he says, and then adds, “thank you,” because it was...surprisingly thoughtful, for Newton to offer. 

Newton wrinkles his nose. “If you order room service, I’ll kill you.”

“I _beg your pardon_ ,” Hermann says, taken aback. 

“It’s overpriced as fuck, especially at this place,” Newton says. “If I get delivery, will you split the cost.”

Hermann blinks, and then realizes what he’s offering and says, “I...suppose.”

“Okay,” Newton says, with the air of someone who doesn’t care one way or the other. “I’m getting Chinese. What do you want.”

He phrases all of his questions as statements, as if showing any signs of genuine curiosity will be a serious blow to his pride. Rather than feeling bothered by it, it somehow makes Hermann feel fondly exasperated. “What’s the restaurant?”

“Uhhh, the Lucky Wok.” 

“Sounds authentic,” Hermann says, typing the name into his browser to look at the menu. 

“I’m aiming for sustenance, not a five-star dining experience,” Newton scoffs. 

It lacks the venom his voice had held that first time they’d met, that mocking derision. It sounds _almost_ like a joke. Hermann bites down on his lip and searches for something to eat, scared to say anything lest he break this...momentary truce. 

“I’ll have this,” he says, clicking on a noodle dish and turning his laptop to show Newton. “I can transfer you the money.”

Newton scrambles off his bed to take a closer look, squinting, and at the same time a notification chimes, and Hermann cranes his neck to peer at the screen of his laptop. A message from Karla has appeared in the corner of the screen, reading, “ _How was Day 2, Herzchen? You haven’t called me yet, should I be worried?_ ” 

Hermann flushes, both at the embarrassing nickname—only ever used by Karla in her most mocking tones—and at the uncomfortably telling message, yanking his laptop back towards him and hoping Newton didn’t see it. 

No such luck—Newton is giving him an odd, indecipherable look, like he wants to say something but doesn’t know what. But then his mouth shuts with a click, and he returns to his bed, where he clicks on something on his own laptop, presumably adding Hermann’s meal to his order. 

Hermann clears his throat, types out a hasty reply to Karla while he tries to rein in his blush. “ _Everything is fine_ ,” he tells her. “ _Stop bothering me._ ” 

She does not stop bothering him—instead grills Hermann about his day, and, when Hermann lets slip that he and Newton had been marginally more friendly (or rather, marginally less antagonistic), about every interaction they had had all day. 

“ _So you didn’t take my advice to have a conversation_ ,” Karla writes, scathing even through text. 

“ _We’ve only just managed to exchange a dozen half-civil words, Karla_ ,” he reminds her. 

“ _Well, I guess I can’t have you taking over as Most Emotionally Mature in this family_ ,” Karla says. 

Hermann snorts indelicately, and immediately looks up in embarrassment, and finds Newton looking at him again, a small frown etched into his mouth. 

Just then, there’s a knock at their door, and Newton all but flings himself off his bed to answer it,  
swinging the door open to reveal the delivery man carrying paper bags of food. Hermann isn’t entirely sure why he’s so relieved. 

The rest of the evening is spent in silence, but it’s less tense, closer to amiable than it has been in the past. Newton watches something on his laptop with headphones on, and then he spends an hour or two typing something up with such focus that Hermann burns with curiosity. But he keeps to himself, exchanges a few more messages with Karla, works halfheartedly on his thesis. Thinks about the fact that Newton is _finished_ his thesis. Feels pride, rather than envy. Feels questions about it bubble up in his throat, which he chokes back. 

They haven’t managed a single conversation yet without snipping at each other. And Hermann has not yet forgotten Newton’s look of horror upon seeing him for the first time, his anger at Hermann being there, his voice when he said _I’m just fucking disappointed._ The pain flares anew. 

He shouldn’t even _be_ civil. It was Newton who—who ended their friendship. Hermann shouldn’t smile at him behind his hand, and want to talk to him, and ache for warmth between them. 

But he’s weak. And he loved Newton for far longer than he’s been upset with him. 

He’ll follow Newton’s lead, as he always has.

~

The third day of the conference is...better. They wake up at a more reasonable time, and eat breakfast side-by-side, though in near silence. They sit together during the day’s keynote presentation, too, and then the first session that they attend together. They don’t speak, and there’s tension between them, but Hermann appreciates knowing he will have a spot to sit in every room that holds Newton. It’s not comfort, but it’s something.

During the break between sessions, Hermann stays in his seat, ostensibly to finish up some notes on the last lecture, but really because the refreshment table is nearby and the floor is swarming with attendees, and he doesn’t want to bother trying to navigate it. His leg is feeling better today than it has since the flight, but he’d like to keep it that way, rather than trip over someone’s foot and make everything worse again. Newton darts out of his seat the moment the session ends, and Hermann assumes it’s to go to another room for the next block, pays him no mind. 

But then the chair beside him is pulled out again, and he looks up, sees Newton balancing a plate in either hand, and a cup between his forearm and chest. Hermann almost scoffs, almost says, “Is that much food really necessary, barely an hour before lunch?” 

Before he can, Newton sets down one plate in front of him, holding a single brownie square, and then sits down in his own chair with his cup and a plate of vegetables. 

“Er,” Hermann says, rather shocked. 

“I just grabbed it on instinct,” Newton says, avoiding his gaze. “But I can’t eat it. So.”

“Ah,” Hermann says. It doesn’t really make sense—Newton has been eating gluten-free for at least a decade, he should not be grabbing brownies _on instinct_. But all he says is, “Thank you.”

Newton shrugs, crunches into a carrot. 

They eat in silence for a few moments, Hermann fidgeting with his notepad and pen and wishing, vaguely, that Newton had also brought him a cup of water. And then Newton says, “I thought that, too.”

“Hmm?” Hermann’s head jerks up to look at him, momentarily thinking that Newton had read his thoughts, somehow. But he sees Newton looking down at his paper, at his notes. 

“Your point about his findings not being that real-world applicable. At least not at this stage.” Newton shrugs. “I was thinking the same thing. I don’t know why he didn’t just say that his research didn’t turn out to be as helpful as he hoped.”

“Ah.” Hermann clears his throat. “Yes, well. I suppose he had to look good, after all that funding he received.”

“Just seems kinda fake when they do that,” Newton says. “Like, if your results turn out to be shit, then say that, and talk about what you learned from that, you know?”

Hermann is so confused by Newton’s sudden interest in speaking to him that he merely says, “Indeed.”

Newton glances at him sidelong. “You’re allowed to disagree with me, you know.”

Hermann almost laughs at that. Back when they were writing letters, all they _did_ was argue. But that was different. “I don’t disagree,” he says. “I wrote it in my notes, after all.”

“Yeah, well, my notes say, _Kind of a dickhead, meet me in the parking lot._ ” 

Hermann coughs to cover a snicker. “Mature,” he says mildly. 

He catches Newton smiling, though, so he’s not sure he sounded very convincing. 

Hermann isn’t sure what to think. 

But he told himself he would follow Newton’s lead, so he does. At lunch, he saves the seat next to him for Newton until he returns from the dietary restrictions food table, and then pretends it just happened to be free for him when Newton reaches him. In an afternoon session, he notices Newton penning “ _NEEDS AN ASTROBIOLOGIST ON HER RESEARCH TEAM DUMBASS_ ” in his notes. Hermann reaches over and writes, underneath it, “ _Such as yourself, I assume?_ ” 

Newton looks at him in surprise, flashes a quick smile, and then visibly tries to _not_ smile. “ _I’m a bioengineer_ ,” he writes back. 

“ _But I suppose you still know more than she does_ ,” Hermann replies, gesturing to the woman presenting onstage. 

“ _Well,_ ” Newton scrawls. “ _That goes without saying._ ” 

His overconfidence is as familiar as his terrible handwriting. Hermann bites back a small smile of his own. 

In the evening, they order takeout together again, this time getting Indian. Newton laughs at something he’s watching on his laptop. Hermann, feeling strangely brave, asks him what he’s watching. Newton turns the screen to show him a horrible monster movie from the 80s. He says, “You’d hate it.” He says, “Do you wanna watch?”

Hermann shrugs. “I suppose there’s nothing better to do,” he says, despite never having stooped this low in the past.

Newton moves over on his bed and pats the spot next to him. Swallowing thickly, Hermann moves to sit there, legs outstretched, making sure that there are inches of spaces between them. He can still feel Newton’s warmth, veritably radiating off of him, and it makes Hermann dizzy. 

“You can do your weird stretching while we watch,” Newton tells him. 

“It’s not weird,” Hermann says. “It’s physiotherapy.”

“Okay,” Newton says. He starts the movie over. 

It’s appallingly bad. Hermann tells Newton that it’s the worst movie he’s ever seen. Newton agrees, but doesn’t seem to mean it in the same way Hermann does. 

It’s still stiff. Hermann still never knows what to say or if he’s allowed to smile. Newton still glances at him like he’s wary, like he doesn’t quite trust Hermann, like he’s not sure if he _can_ or if he _should_. Hermann feels like he’s the one who should be feeling those things. 

But it’s bearable. Which is more than Hermann could have asked for going into this. 

And then on the fourth day, things change. 

On the fourth day, the session just before lunch is a panel on extraterrestrial life, which is much more up Newton’s alley than Hermann’s, but which he tells himself he finds fascinating nonetheless. 

The presentation _is_ interesting, if somewhat over Hermann’s head, but Newton is obviously enraptured, scratching down notes with an almost manic energy, eyes bright and captivated. Hermann enjoys watching him as much as he enjoys the presentation. More, if he’s being honest. 

At the end of the session, there’s twenty minutes for questions and answers. These are some of the top minds in extraterrestrial theory, some of the few that are actually taken seriously when they talk about aliens, and so Hermann is not surprised in the least when Newton’s hand shoots up to ask a question. 

He asks something about alternative biochemical bases in life from other planets, something about ammonia and solvents, Hermann doesn’t really understand it. But the panelists seem impressed, answering seriously and thoroughly, and Newton positively _beams_. 

Afterwards, when they are waiting for the crowd to thin out in order to make their way to the dining hall for lunch, someone walks up to Newton and says, “That was a very interesting question you asked, back there.”

Newton blinks, and then grins. Hermann recognizes the man as one of the panelists, the American one who had sat near the middle and done a lot of the talking. “Oh, thanks!” Newton says, shaking his hand vigorously. “It’s something I think about a lot, you know, the possibilities in astrobiology, and like. The fact that it’s not governed by Earth’s laws.” 

“Indeed,” the man says, and he smiles back, but Hermann, standing off to the side, thinks it looks distinctly indulgent. “Are you here on a school trip, or…?”

“Oh, no, just for kicks,” Newton says, jamming his hands into his pockets, trying desperately to look nonchalant. “This was one of the panels I was most excited about. I’m not in astrobio, but I really like reading about it and stuff.”

That’s an understatement—even _Hermann_ knows more than the average person about astrobiology, just from reading Newton’s numerous papers on the subject, some of which he didn’t even write _for school._ He just wrote them for the fun of it. 

“Good for you,” the man says, like a father praising a young child who’s drawn a self-portrait in crayon. 

Newton doesn’t seem to notice. “Actually I have this other theory, too, like other than my ammonia-based biological makeup one. I didn’t bring it up because I could only ask one question and the other one was more relevant but like. I have a bunch of cool theories actually, and I don’t get to talk about them very often, so yeah. There’s this one I have about alternatives to carbon-based lifeforms—”

And he launches into a theory that, quite frankly, Hermann thinks is probably ridiculous. He’s told Hermann about it before, a little, near the beginning of their correspondence when Newton was neck-deep in his astrobiology phase. He seems to have expanded on it since then, having come up with all sorts of alternatives to genetic makeup and an entire theory of abiogenesis, a new origin of life, and with his hair wild and his eyes wide and his hands gesticulating expansively, he _does_ look a little, well. If Hermann didn’t know him, he might think Newton was a bit on the eccentric side. 

It makes him feel fond, right up until he sees the man in front of Newton laugh. “That’s very interesting, Mr…?”

“Newt,” he says, blinking, having snapped out of his rant. “Geiszler.”

“Mr. Geiszler,” the man says. “Did you hear about that on the History Channel?”

Newton frowns. “I just told you it was my own theory.”

“Right, right. I’m going to have to tell my colleagues about that,” the man says, and his voice makes it very clear that if he does tell his colleagues, it will be as a funny anecdote. 

“You don’t think it’s possible?” Newton asks, looking more than a little disappointed. 

“Well, it’s not exactly the _first_ theory I would explore with a research team,” the man says, still chuckling. 

Newton frowns more deeply. “That’s because you hadn’t thought about it yet.”

“Young minds these days,” the man says lightly, smiling brightly. “So imaginative.”

It’s then that it becomes clear to Newton that he’s not being taken seriously. Hermann sees it in his eyes, sees the realization sink in, the embarrassment bloom across his face. “I think I’d be able to convince you,” he says, open and insistent. Hermann admires his ability to remain earnest, especially considering his experience with older professionals thus far.

“I’m afraid I don’t have time for that today,” the man says, and laughs. 

He laughs, and Newton steps back away from it like the sound reached out to slap him, and Hermann won’t stand for it. He won’t stand for this again. 

“Pardon me,” he says, voice crisp and cutting across the chatter in the room. Newton turns to him with wide eyes, but Hermann doesn’t look at him, stepping forward, staring at the American man and his increasingly confused smile. “ _Pardon me_ , but I’m wondering if perhaps you’re not truly qualified to be sitting on this panel.”

The man blinks at him, his smile dipping into a frown. “I’m sorry?”

“It’s just that, I feel like if even my friend _Dr._ Geiszler here—” he emphasizes the title, proud as if it were his own, “—can outmatch you in a field of study that isn’t even his specialty, then perhaps he should have been sitting on that panel rather than you.”

“I—” the man says, and then stops, clearly perplexed. 

“It’s the only reason that makes sense for why you’re so quick to brush aside what even I could tell were well thought-out theories,” Hermann says, feeling his face heat up and his fists clench. “That you simply didn’t understand them. You see, Dr. Geiszler is a leading mind in subjects too complicated for your mind to even comprehend, and so I know that _he_ knows his way around complex theories and groundbreaking research, but I see no evidence that you share that same intelligence. He is also familiar with taking something that seems impossible and turning it into something real and tangible and life-changing, and from the response you just gave him, you tell me that you are not. And just now he stood up and voiced respectable points about something that _should_ be within your purview and yet you brushed it aside as if it didn’t register in your mind at all. And so I ask again, are you sure you’re more qualified to be on this panel than Dr. Geiszler is?” 

The man does not respond—just stares at him, shocked, mouth hanging open. 

Newton stares at Hermann as well, looking similarly stunned. “Holy shit,” he says quietly, and Hermann feels a wave of embarrassment pour over his head and soak into his bones. “Dude,” Newton says. “Did you just call me your friend?”

Hermann nearly chokes on his tongue. Feeling like he is one moment from literally bursting into flames, Hermann clears his throat, sniffs once, and then says, “Good day,” before striding out of the room. 

He doesn’t need to eat lunch, he decides. 

He needs to call Karla.

~

Karla is not helpful at all, and, in fact, mostly just laughs and sighs at Hermann when he tells her about his...outburst. It’s very embarrassing, and he’s not sure why he bothers telling her at all, but at the very least, it keeps him out of the dining hall, keeps him out of Newton’s sight. Hermann thinks that if he felt Newton’s eyes on him right now, he would spontaneously combust.

But eventually lunch ends, and Hermann paid a lot of money for this symposium. He returns to the convention centre with no small amount of trepidation, and intentionally chooses the session he thinks Newton is least likely to attend. He finds a seat, stretches out his leg, watches the front silently, stomach still churning with chagrin. 

A moment later, Newton drops into the seat next to him. Hermann’s breath hitches. 

His body is warm. He smells like something familiar—Hermann would say _like home_ if home had ever been something he had actually liked. He keeps his eyes to the front, heat bleeding into his cheeks. 

A hand appears in his line of vision. Black fingernails, leather bracelets. A sandwich, wrapped in a napkin. Hermann’s stomach growls. 

He glances at Newton, who smiles a little. “You missed lunch,” he says quietly, as a speaker walks onstage. “Unless you went out and got something better than conference food.”

Hermann shakes his head slowly, and takes the sandwich. “Ah. Thank you.”

Newton shrugs, open his mouth to say something, and then closes it and turns to the front of the room as someone begins to speak. 

Hermann exhales shakily. He glances at Newton out of the corner of his eye as he unwraps the sandwich and takes a silent bite—takes in his familiar profile, his rumpled shirt, the freckles across his nose and cheeks. Hermann’s stomach flips, and he curses Newton for being so handsome, and so unexpectedly thoughtful, and for not liking Hermann when Hermann wants him so badly, even now. It’s really very unfair. 

Hermann hopes to avoid Newton that evening after the final session of the day, hopes to stay on his side of their shared room and not look at Newton, or maybe to leave the room entirely and hide away in the lobby or the dining area, anywhere Newton wouldn’t find him and want to _talk_ to him. Talk about earlier. 

But alas, he has no such luck. He goes up to their room after his last workshop, thrumming with thoughts of the predictive models discussed just prior, and the same low-grade anxiety that has plagued him this entire week, albeit amplified since this morning. He opens the door, meaning to pick up his laptop and take it away to some hidden corner or the hotel, and finds Newton standing there by his bed, in the middle of changing into a pair of cut-off jean shorts. 

“Oh,” Newton says, yanking the shorts up his thighs and sucking in his gut a little to button them. Hermann finds it _dreadfully_ attractive. “Hey.”

“Hello,” Hermann says stiffly, mouth dry. 

It’s quiet for a moment, as Hermann moves to his side of the room to find a clean shirt. He’s sweat through the one he put on in the morning. 

Before he can take it into the bathroom to change, though, Newton is speaking up again, sounding vaguely uncertain as he says, “Hey, Hermann—”

Hermann bites his tongue, turns in Newton’s general direction but doesn’t look at him. “Hmm?”

Another pause, and then, “I was wondering if you wanted to, like, go out? Or something?”

Hermann’s heart nearly jumps straight out of his chest, and he struggles to say something. “ _Out?_ ” 

“Yeah, like. Outside. For a walk, or. I dunno.”

Hermann closes his eyes briefly, his heart faltering. Ah. Of course. 

“Just,” Newton continues, “we spent a lot of money to get here, right, and we’re not even leaving the hotel? Seems like a waste. We’re in Sydney, and I’ve never been here, and I’m pretty sure you’ve never been here, and we haven’t even seen any of it apart from the roads from here to the airport.”

That...is true. Hermann had been so tired and sore those first few days, unwilling to exert himself more than was strictly necessary, but that also means he hasn’t been taking advantage of his...holiday, as it is. 

“So, yeah,” Newton says, as Hermann continues to stay silent. “I was just wondering if you wanted to like. Go out and see some stuff. With me.”

Hermann purses his lips, tugs at the cuffs of his sleeves. “I won’t be up for much walking on these hills,” he says uncomfortably. 

“That’s fine,” Newton says easily. “We can take the bus.”

“I’ll need to change first,” Hermann says, as if hoping that will persuade Newton to drop it. 

“Dude, I am not stopping you.”

Hermann bites down on what threatens to be a smile. “Give me a few minutes to get ready,” he says, and disappears into the bathroom. 

He thinks he sees the edge of Newton’s smile as he passes by, but doesn’t turn to check. He’s just bored, he tells himself. He’s bored and extroverted. Don’t be hopeful. 

They go to Sydney Harbour, with Newton leading the way. Hermann’s family was never one for vacationing—father always too busy, mother more interested in hosting dinner parties than leaving the country—so he doesn’t know much about sightseeing. But he and Newton walk slowly around the harbour, looking out at the water, across at the Opera House and the Sydney Harbour Bridge. The weather is beautiful, warm and breezy, and Hermann’s leg is surprisingly agreeable, and Newton is smiling, looking around with wide eyes and trying to imitate the accent he hears around them. Hermann follows him around sedately, admiring the view. 

They visit the Royal Botanical Garden next, tucked behind the Opera House, and stroll along paths leisurely as Newton tries to identify poisonous plants. Hermann’s not sure if it’s supposed to be for his amusement or Newton’s. 

They sit down, at length, on a bench overlooking the harbour. Hermann hadn’t said anything, but his leg is beginning to ache dully, so he’s grateful for the rest. And Newton is quiet, hands braced on his bare knees, leaning into the wind, expression thoughtful. 

Hermann is thoroughly enjoying the quiet right up until Newton opens his mouth and says, “So, what was that about, earlier?”

Hermann tenses up so quickly that it throbs through his hip. He clears his throat, stares out at the water. “What do you mean?” he asks, knowing perfectly well that Newton will see right through it. 

But Newton just says, “With Dr. Curtis. After the extraterrestrial life panel.” 

Hermann clears his throat again, fully aware that his face must be red and wishing Newton would stop looking at him. “Well. He was being unnecessarily rude.”

Newton’s lips quirk in a smile. “He just didn’t like my theory, Herms.”

Hermann is so flustered that he ignores the terrible nickname. “He was looking down on you. He was acting like you were an idiot.”

“I kind of am an idiot,” Newton says. 

“Oh, don’t even start, Newton, you’re potentially the smartest person at MIT,” Hermann says, rolling his eyes. 

There’s a brief pause, and then Newton says, “You think I’m smart?”

Hermann nearly rolls his eyes again, warm under the collar. “It’s a fact, Newton, not an opinion.”

“Still,” Newton says, and he’s grinning, a little shy, and Hermann has a horrible, _horrible_ crush on him. 

“You’re perfectly aware I think you’re intelligent,” Hermann says with a sniff, avoiding Newton’s eyes. “Why else would I have written to you?”

“What, not because you li—” Newton stops, shuts his mouth. Takes his own turn clearing his throat. 

Hermann’s flush returns with a vengeance. For a moment there, Newton’s tone had been light, friendly—edging on _flirtatious_ , maybe, if Hermann didn’t know better. But he’d caught himself, and Hermann thinks he’s grateful for it. He thinks he wouldn’t have been able to handle that tone, directed at him. 

“You’re one of the best scientists I know,” Hermann says, words more clipped than he’d intended. “That man should have listened to you.”

“Ah,” Newton says, swallowing audibly. “Um, thanks, Herms.”

Hermann wrinkles his nose. “Don’t call me that.”

Newton laughs uneasily. Hermann supposes it’s the best he could have asked for.

~

The gardens close, and Hermann and Newton move on to searching for somewhere to get dinner before they head back to the hotel. They find a quaint little diner, take seats next to the large window at a table for two. It feels painfully intimate, and Hermann has a hard time looking across at Newton, so he studies the menu diligently, and then pretends to have something very important to look at on his phone.

“So…” Newton says, after they have been brought their meals and he has already taken an enormous bite from his gluten-free panini. Hermann jerks his head up from his plate. Newton smiles crookedly, cheeks bulging with food. “How are you liking the conference?”

He really must be desperate for interaction, if he’s asking _Hermann_ this. Hermann wonders, briefly, how many people Newton talks to on a daily basis. (For Hermann, the number is generally as low as he can get away with, plus one if he calls Karla.) “It’s been...interesting,” he says slowly, uncertain what answer Newton is looking for. 

Apparently it is not that. “You’re disappointed?” Newton asks, brows furrowing. 

Hermann frowns. “No, no. It’s been. _Very_ interesting. I’ve been learning a lot.”

“Okay, because for a second there you sounded like you meant _interesting_ as in _not what I expected but in a bad way._ ” Newton takes a long sip from his glass of soda. “So far I’ve been really impressed. Some really wild stuff being discussed here.”

“Er, yes. I agree.” Hermann very _much_ agrees, has pages and pages of notes on all the things he’s learned and wants to know more about and could write hundreds of thesis proposals on. But he’s still not convinced Newton isn’t just speaking to hear his own voice, because Hermann is the most convenient person on which to unleash some of his pent-up social energy, and so he plans to stay, for the most part, quiet. Less of a chance of saying the wrong thing, that way. 

He doesn’t seem to be doing a good job, regardless. “You sound, like, the opposite of enthusiastic,” Newton says, and there’s a little wrinkle between his brows that Hermann finds stupidly endearing. “Do you not think it was worth the money?”

Hermann hums noncommittally, poking at his salad. “I didn’t say that.”

“You’re not saying _much,_ ” Newton points out. 

Hermann sniffs, glances up at him quickly. “I’m not...much...of a conversationalist,” he says, piercing a single spinach leaf on the tines of his fork. 

“Uh, you seemed to have plenty to say for the three years we talked _constantly_ via snail mail,” Newton says, unimpressed. 

Hermann’s face goes warm. “That was a different matter entirely,” he says, picking at the edge of his napkin, now. He can’t seem to stop fidgeting, trying to keep his hands and gaze occupied, but it’s nothing compared to the way Newton’s knee is bouncing opposite him, making their entire table vibrate slightly. 

“You’re killing me, Hermann. Do you think the symposium was worth the money? I’m asking you straight up, it’s a yes or no question.”

Hermann sighs in resignation. “Yes,” he says. “I’m not sure I would come again, all the way to Sydney, but it’s been a very satisfying experience thus far.”

“Oh, good,” Newton says, looking relieved. “I was kind of scared I made you come all the way here and spend all that money just to be disappointed.”

Hermann frowns. “You didn’t make me come.”

“Well, no, but I did kind of, like...strong-arm you into saying yes.”

“You did no such thing. You asked if I wanted to go, and I said yes.”

Newton shrugs, picking at his french fries. “I feel like I kind of steamrollered you with my enthusiasm, though. I tend to do that.”

“I was plenty enthusiastic on my own,” Hermann says firmly. And then adds, “Back then.”

He’s not sure why he says it, really, but he thinks it has something to do with the rueful look on Newton’s face, the loose set of his shoulders, the hint of a smile on his lips. The fact that every time Hermann looks at him, his chest still squeezes painfully. It feels too much like affability to be safe. He can’t let himself think that. 

They finish their meals between various bursts of conversation, slowly but surely as the sun goes down on the streets of Sydney. At the end, when their waitress brings the bill, Hermann gets out his wallet, insists that he will pay, since he hasn’t yet paid Newton back for the previous nights’ takeout dinners. Newton shrugs, allows it. 

Hermann slides out his card, drops his wallet on the table in front of him as he fiddles with the card reader. Immediately, Newton picks it up, chuckling. 

“What,” Hermann says dryly, inputting his PIN into the machine. 

“Even your wallet is like. An old man wallet,” Newton says. 

Hermann doesn’t even look at him, making sure his card hasn’t been declined. “It’s a leather wallet, it’s hardly an age-specific style.” 

“Yeah, but like, it looks like it’s a hundred years old, and it’s got those little sleeves for your grandchildren’s pictures—” Newton flips it open, and then abruptly stops speaking. 

Hermann makes an enquiring sound, handing the waitress back the card reader. Newton doesn’t say anything, so Hermann takes his receipt and looks up at him, at Newton holding his wallet, wide open. He realizes, suddenly, what’s _inside_ his photo sleeves, and panic flashes through him so viscerally he nearly makes a sound. Just as quickly, he reaches out and snaps the wallet out of Newton’s hands, turns it around to see Newton’s face staring back up at him—the only picture there, besides a photo of Karla and himself from his graduation. He swallows thickly, flips it closed, face hot and undoubtedly red as a cherry. 

He glances up, and finds Newton smiling in a vague, shocked way, like he’s not sure he should be. Hermann wishes for instant death. For one of Newton’s monsters to rise up from the ocean and crush Sydney beneath its feet. He clears his throat, looks away. “That was from a long time ago,” he says, tucking his wallet back into his pocket and reaching for his cane. It’s high time they leave this diner, which is clearly cursed. 

The next time he glances up at Newton, as they make their way back out onto the sidewalk, he is no longer smiling. Hermann could sigh hard enough to burst a lung. He wishes there were rules for how to interact with someone you were once close with, but have since fallen out with in a very dramatic fashion. 

They wander the streets surrounding Sydney Harbour for a while after that, neither of them speaking. Hermann’s leg is twinging, but he doesn’t want to say anything about it, doesn’t want to say anything at _all_ , really. Every time he opens his mouth he seems to make a mess of things. Best to just bottle things up, that’s what his entire childhood taught him. 

Apparently Newton’s childhood did not teach him the same thing, because barely five minutes have passed before he says, “So, we should probably...head back, huh.”

Hermann shrugs stiffly, keeps his eyes straight ahead. “I suppose.”

“You know, so you can call your. Girlfriend.”

Hermann does look at him now, sharply, brows furrowed. “My _what?_ ” 

Newton blinks back at him from behind his glasses. “Girl...friend?”

“What are you talking about?” They’ve stopped walking, now, just standing in the middle of the sidewalk. 

“The, the girl? That you talk to every day?” Newton looks as confused as Hermann feels. 

Hermann stares at him. “ _Karla?_ ” 

“Is that her name?” Newton says, voice strangely small. “Was that her picture in your wallet?”

Hermann’s mouth opens and closes a few times before he manages to say, “Newton—Newton. Did you ever even read my letters?”

“Yes?” 

“Then you should know that Karla is my _sister_ ,” Hermann says, with feeling. “My older sister? The only member of my family that I like?”

“I—” Newton gapes at him for a moment, and then his ears go red. “I didn’t really. See the name. On the message.”

Hermann scoffs, feeling warm and embarrassed even though he’s done nothing to be embarrassed about, apart from have a sister he calls too much. “You are absolutely ridiculous.”

Newton runs a hand through his hair, causing it to stand up in every direction. “Don’t make fun of me, man,” he says, avoiding Hermann’s gaze. 

“I’m not making fun of you, I’m calling you stupid,” Hermann says. 

Newton huffs, continuing to run his hands through his hair. It’s quite distracting. “So…” he says at length. “You _don’t_ have a girlfriend?”

Hermann levels him with his most unimpressed look. “Dare I ask why you would assume _girl_ friend?”

Newton’s gaze snaps back to him instantly. His voice is high and slightly strangled when he says, “Should I not?”

Hermann frowns at him, embarrassed and confused. They’re in the middle of the sidewalk, after all, and someone has already had to move around them. Still, he says, with finality, “No.”

“What?” Newton says, much too loudly. “ _Dude?_ I— _What?_ ” 

This is _really_ not the place to be discussing this, and Hermann looks around furtively, but, well, it’s not like there’s anyone he knows just walking around Sydney. “I don’t know why you’re so—shocked,” he mutters, hoping his lower tone will bring down Newton’s by association. “I’ve never...talked about women.”

“You’ve never talked about dudes either, dude! What the hell, man, like? I came out to you six fucking months ago!” 

“Yes, and I—” Hermann stops, tries to remember what his reply had been. He… Oh. “Oh.”

Newton snorts loudly. “Yeah, _oh_. You didn’t say shit! I thought you were, you know, politely ignoring it for my sake.”

“Ah. No.” Hermann shifts uneasily, wincing as he puts too much weight on his bad leg. “I think I...forgot.” Maybe on purpose. It was a difficult time in his life. 

“You goddamn _bastard_ ,” Newton says, although it doesn’t sound like he _entirely_ means it. “I thought about that for weeks!”

Hermann clears his throat uncomfortably. “Well. It wouldn’t have changed anything, would it?”

“Wouldn’t have—” Newton stops, blinks. His face spasms oddly. “I— No, I guess it...wouldn’t have.” His voice has dropped, now, to something low and rough and rather bitter. 

Hermann sniffs and turns away from him, in the direction he imagines their hotel is, as his heart sinks through his feet. It wouldn’t have changed anything. Their first meeting would have been the same. Newton’s reaction to him. Their falling out. It would have happened the same way. 

He sighs, starts making his way along the sidewalk again. He can’t have expected anything else.

~

Hermann never does quite train his body to wake up at a reasonable time.

He’s not sure if he does something wrong, or if he is just particularly susceptible to jetlag, but he wakes up at 5:30am every morning, despite the fact that the sessions of the day always begin at nine. And so he has nearly four hours to waste in the morning, usually with Newton sitting right there in his bed, dressed in a t-shirt and boxer briefs. It’s a very trying part of Hermann’s day. 

It happens this way on their fifth day of the symposium. He wakes up at 5:30, spends some time trying to fall back asleep, fails. He gets up, for once, before Newton does. He rises, finds some clean clothes in his trunk, and makes his way to the bathroom to take a shower. 

Fifteen minutes later, he emerges in a cloud of steam to see Newton already sitting up in his bed, legs bare, hair tousled, glasses crooked as he squints through them at his laptop screen. 

“Morning,” Newton says, distracted but pleasant. 

“Good morning,” Hermann responds uncertainly. 

The previous night had been stilted, at best, after their trip into Sydney. They’d returned to their room, and Hermann had tried to get some work done, and eventually given up and started writing up his notes from the symposium instead, just for ease of reference. Newton had watched something—possibly a monster movie, possibly a documentary—on his laptop. It had been stiff and silent and distinctly uncomfortable, and Hermann is positive he hadn’t just imagined that. 

But sleep has seemed to soften Newton’s feelings towards him, or otherwise he has forgotten yesterday’s interactions, because now he is shooting Hermann a vague smile over the top of his laptop, and it’s making Hermann’s heart thud in his throat. Newton has yet to shave—Hermann has been occupying the bathroom, after all—and his jaw is particularly stubbled, and his hair is an absolute mess, and he looks soft and warm in his sleep things. Hermann has the brief thought that he would sacrifice a great deal to climb into that bed with him. (He is very embarrassed by this thought.) 

Hermann putters around for a few minutes, tidying his side of the room while Newton reminds him that there are people paid to make your bed, Hermann, you don’t need to do it yourself. Hermann ignores him, and tries to parse if his tone was teasing or mocking. He’s never been very good at that. 

There is a brief lull between them, a rare moment of peace, and then Newton says, “Hey, Herms, come look at this.”

“Hmm?” Hermann looks up from where he is folding his nightclothes and putting them away. 

Newton is waving him over vaguely. “My tattoo artist in Boston sent me a mock-up of my next piece, come check it out.”

Hermann can’t fathom why Newton wants _his_ opinion on it, but he huffs, shuffles over all the same. Newton turns the laptop towards him slightly, but not all the way around—Hermann has to sidle up directly next to him and crane his neck to see the screen. 

It’s a large piece, a stylized depiction of some kind of tentacled monster wrapping its appendages around a crumpling Golden Gate Bridge, which is simultaneously being destroyed under the claws of something huge and vaguely Jurassic. “Ah, like the song,” he says, examining it closely. 

A beat, and then Newton says, “What?”

“Like your song,” Hermann says thoughtfully, “ _Monsters on the—_ ”

He freezes. Hopes, briefly, for a stroke of genius that will allow him to discover the miracle of time travel. Blasted… _fuck_. 

Newton’s face is tipped fully up at him, and his eyes are shining. “You...know my song?”

Hermann’s throat bobs. “I—”

“No, no, you can’t get out of this,” Newton says, and Hermann leans back, away from him and that blasted laptop. “I know I never told you about this so you have to have looked it up.”

“Well,” Hermann fumbles to say, “you kept talking about your band—”

“I mentioned it like _five times_ and you _never asked—_ ” 

“I was just _curious—_ ” 

“That was years ago, Hermann!”

Hermann’s face is hot, and he wonders if now would be an appropriate time to leave for breakfast. He doesn’t want to talk about this right now. He doesn’t want to talk about this _ever_. He thinks it is absurdly cruel for Newton to be forcing him to admit to this. “I was very curious about you,” he says stiffly, moving back to his side of the room, praying that his leg doesn’t give out on him. “Back then.”

From across the room, he can see Newton’s face shutter. “Back then,” he says, voice suddenly cold. “Sure.”

God. Every conversation is a minefield between them, and Hermann is made of missteps. 

He retreats, wisely, and starts thinking that breakfast is _definitely_ a good idea. And not with Newton, today. The more time they spend apart, the better. 

And then, out of the tense silence, Newton says, “Can I ask you a question?”

Hermann wants to say no. He doesn’t like the tone of Newton’s voice, the dread that it plants in Hermann’s stomach. But he’s an adult, and capable of acting like it, so he nods, although he doesn’t meet Newton’s eyes. 

There’s one more beat of horrible anticipatory silence, and then Newton says, in a voice Hermann has never heard from him before, “What did I do wrong?”

This _does_ make Hermann turn to look at him, and he sees something dark and confusing in Newton’s eyes, still sitting cross-legged in his underwear on his bed. “What?”

“I’ve been thinking about it for months,” Newton says hoarsely, “and I can’t figure it out. What did I do wrong?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Hermann says, stomach rolling. 

“Don’t play dumb, Hermann. Unless you’re just really good at faking it in writing and felt _really_ sorry for me, we were _friends_. For _three years._ And then—suddenly—you’re done.” His voice breaks, just a little, and it makes Hermann’s breath catch. “And I don’t know— I have no idea— Was it asking you to hang out in Munich? Was it wanting to meet in real life? I asked you to hang out and you just _didn’t answer_ , dude. But you agreed to come here, to Sydney, and you say I didn’t make you, so— Was it seeing me at the conference? My, my face, or my voice, or how fucking short I am? Or did I say something, or were you just, were you disturbed by how terrible I was on that panel?”

Hermann stands under the barrage, stunned and confused and not entirely sure he isn’t being mocked, somehow. “Newton, you must be mistaken—”

“Don’t give me that shit, dude, you could _not_ have been more clear. I just want to know _why._ ” Newton’s eyes are blazing. 

Hermann holds out his hands, as if that will stop Newton from saying so many things he doesn’t understand. “I— This is ridiculous,” he says, because he has no clue what’s going _on_. 

“It’s absolutely not ridiculous! It’s—”

“Newton,” Hermann cuts in, because he has to say this, he has to say, “ _you_ were the one who hated _me_.” 

Newton stops talking abruptly, and then simply says, “ _What?_ ” 

“You—you hated me.” Hermann swallows thickly, stares straight back into Newton’s baffled face. “Newton, the first words you said to my face were _what are you doing here?_ ” 

Newton gapes at him openly. “I—I was fucking surprised to see you, dude!”

“I expected you to be surprised, Newton, I just didn’t expect you to be so unpleasantly so!” Now Hermann’s voice is rising, too, and he can’t stop himself. 

“Hermann, you fucking showed up at my conference and saw me _publicly humiliated._ ” 

“And that made you hate me?” 

“I didn’t hate you, I was fucking _embarrassed._ ” 

Hermann scoffs, overwhelmed and disconcerted. “I wasn’t the one who disregarded you up there.” 

“No, but I has just been fucking—belittled and shit, and it was already embarrassing, and then I look up and _you’re_ there, fucking _watching me_ ,” Newton says, voice shrill. 

“Well, what would you have wanted me to do, stand up in the middle of the presentation and berate them?”

“No, Hermann, I just wanted some warning that you would be there, so I could tell you not to come!”

“Because you didn’t want to see me?” Hermann demands, breath caught in his chest, suffocating him. 

“No! Hermann, you fucking idiot, because I didn’t want you to see me embarrassed in front of a room of respected academics!”

Hermann snaps his mouth shut, and for a moment he imagines himself in that situation. Imagines himself, onstage, humiliated by older adults who don’t take him seriously, treat him like a child. And then looking out into the crowd and seeing Newton there, watching it. For a moment, he understands, with painful clarity, the shame that would have coursed through his veins. 

But that wasn’t the only thing Newton had said to him that day. “You made fun of me,” he says tightly. “You mocked my clothes.”

Newton throws his hands in the air, like Hermann is the one being ridiculous. “I always make fun of your clothes, Hermann, you dress like an old man!”

It’s true—Newton has always teased him for his wardrobe—but it had stung, that day. When he had wanted, so damn badly, for Newton look at him with approval. “You’re one to talk, in your, your ripped jeans and ridiculous boots,” he snips. 

“Dude, that’s the fucking _point!_ ” Newton says shrilly. “I make fun of you because it’s not like I’m any fucking better. I think your clothes are nerdy, you think my clothes are dumb, that’s the fucking _point._ ” 

Hermann inhales deeply, files that away to...process, and pick apart, later, when he has a mind to. Right now, he has to say, “You said you were disappointed.”

Newton’s eyes flash, and his fists ball up on his bare thighs. “I was,” he says roughly. “I fucking _was_ , because the conference was shitty and then you were there and you saw me at my _literal_ worst and you didn’t like me and it fucking _sucked,_ Hermann, I _was_ disappointed.”

Hermann feels more confused than ever, emotions swirling around his head, pummeling his skull from all sides. “You hated me,” he says, like he’s reaffirming it, this thing he knows, has known for two months, to be true. 

“Why do you keep saying that?” Newton’s voice is strangely wet. “ _You_ hated _me_. You weren’t even subtle about it. I didn’t hate you, dude, why would I hate you, I was mad and acting like a dumbass but I didn’t fucking hate you, I was fucking in _love with you_ , and—”

He stops abruptly, mouth snapping shut with an audible click, and Hermann’s mind screeches to a halt. “Shit,” Newton says, face going red. 

Hermann stares at him, speechless, trying to just, to _comprehend_. Newton’s words cycle through his head, and everything else feels very far away. “Newton—”

“No, no, shit, _fuck_ , I take it back,” Newton babbles, fists clenching in his messy bedclothes, eyes wild. “I didn’t say anything. Don’t look at me.”

“ _Newton_ ,” Hermann says, because it’s the only word he can seem to think of. 

“Hermann, I swear to god, I’m going to die. I swear on my life. Don’t even look at me.”

For once, Hermann cannot look away, even though looking at Newton feels like staring directly into the sun—forbidden and dangerous and burning. He stares at Newton for a long time, and Newton looks everywhere _but_ Hermann, looking on the verge of hyperventilation. Hermann does not know what to say. He’s not even entirely sure he knows what’s happening. Everything is all muddled and confused in his brain. For twenty-one years, this brain has served him well in all things academic, and has helped him not at all in a single social situation. Especially not when it comes to speech. 

So he says, with a sense of being somewhat removed from his body, “Newton. If you’re quite finished. May I kiss you?”

Newton gapes at him, his pink mouth open and inviting. “What?”

Hermann feels himself go warm in a rather detached way. “I’d rather not say it again. It was already very hard the first time.”

Newton does not respond; just sits there, staring, slack-jawed. 

Hermann sighs. “May I—”

“Dude, what the fuck?”

For a moment, Hermann panics, coming back to himself completely, and remembers Newton’s words, the use of the past tense, _I_ was _in love with you_ , Hermann has made a terrible mistake, he’s ruined it, he—

“Don’t fucking ask me, just fucking— Holy shit— Dude, stop standing there, fucking kiss me!”

There’s a shivery moment of silence, and then Hermann is striding across the room, ignoring the sharp ache in his hip, and Newton is scrambling to push up onto his knees at the edge of his bed, and both of them are breathing raggedly, and—

They’re kissing. Incredibly, impossibly, they’re kissing. Hermann’s mouth is pressed up against Newton’s, and his hands are cupped around Newton’s stubbled jaw, holding him steady, and Newton is clutching at the sides of Hermann’s shirt, and he’s, he’s breathing humidly against Hermann’s mouth and making a small, shocked sound, and. 

His mouth is warm, soft, as soft as Hermann always imagined, and Hermann can scarcely breathe. He’s never, he’s never done this before, and his legs are shaky and his heart is thudding in his chest and his throat and ears, and Newton is _kissing him._ His nose is pressed into Hermann’s cheek, and his lips are moving, warm and too dry, faintly chapped, but so good, _unbelievably_ good. 

Newton makes a soft, overwhelmed sound against Hermann’s lips, and the knee on Hermann’s bad leg buckles a little, threatens to send him to the floor. He leans forward, tries to push up against the side of Newton’s bed for support, against Newton, but he pushes too far, unbalances, sends Newton tipping back so that he has to sit down hard, feet tucked up underneath him. 

Hermann follows him down, intent on not letting this moment end, because up until now everything has been terrible, but this is perfect, and he’s not willing to let that go. So he braces one arm against the mattress next to Newton’s hip, leans in, keeps one hand on Newton’s cheek, his thumb rubbing across unshaved skin over and over as he brings their mouths back together. Newton makes another sound, a high whine, and Hermann can’t handle it—he lifts one knee onto the mattress so he can press farther in, tipping his head to the side so that he can kiss that much harder, his heart squeezing tight enough to _demand_ it. 

“Oh my god,” Newton says, breaking away, his hands scrabbling at Hermann’s sides. “Holy shit, _Hermann?_ Did you like me back?”

Hermann laughs, a harsh cough of a sound, as he tries to find a position in which he can keep kissing Newton without the risk of collapsing on his face. “Of course I did, you moronic—”

“No, not _of course_ , Hermann, you never! You never gave me even one little hint!” Even as he say it, Newton is hauling Hermann up onto the bed, and then, when Hermann hisses with pain, pushing him so that he’s the one sitting against the headboard, and kissing him painfully in the meantime, teeth knocking against Hermann’s lips. 

“I sent you _photos_ of myself,” Hermann protests, curling his hands into the loose neck of Newton’s shirt, pulling him closer. 

Newton presses his mouth against Hermann’s in a way that can only be describes as _smushing_. “Only when I needled you!”

“I asked if that girl was your _girlfriend_ ,” Hermann says, extremely warm all over. 

“And then when I came out to you, you didn’t even say if you liked dudes!”

“I—I have your picture in my _wallet_.” 

As if spurred on by that reminder, Newton kisses Hermann ardently, curling his hands into Hermann’s hair and pressing their lips together so hard it’s edged with pain, his glasses bumping against Hermann’s cheekbone. “Yeah,” he pants, breaking away with a gasp, “okay, that was fucking cute, but that was after I thought you hated me—”

“I bought your band’s _terrible_ album,” Hermann tells him, as if that is the argument to end all arguments. In his mind, it is. 

Newton pulls back a couple of inches, and Hermann looks at his face for the first time since he leaned in to kiss Newton that first time, and sees him absolutely _beaming_. Hermann’s heart stops; Newton positively glows at him, eyes starry. 

“I knew you’d hate it,” he breathes. 

“I really do,” Hermann tells him, equally breathless. 

There’s a brief period after that wherein neither of them says anything, because they’re too busy kissing, hands clutching at each other, breathing harshly in the space between their lips. That’s not to say Newton is silent, because he’s _not_ —making gasping, breathy sounds, and whimpering when Hermann scrapes his teeth over Newton’s lower lip, and whining like he’s in pain. His hands are everywhere at once, running through Hermann’s hair and clinging to his neck, to his shoulders, to his biceps, rubbing across Hermann’s chest reverently. And he’s never still, shifting restlessly, like if he stops moving he’ll erupt into flames. Hermann understands the sentiment, fire burning through his veins and pooling in his eyes and mouth and groin, but he’s forced to sit where he is, with Newton climbing bodily into his lap. 

And then Newton seems to run out of breath, or else just can’t stop his mouth from running off for more than a minute at a time, and breaks away to mumble in between kisses, mostly incoherent nonsense but then, “I just— You’re so _fucking_ smart and I thought you were so _fucking_ cool—” and, “I liked it so much when you sent me pictures that I kept sending you pictures of _me_ ,” and, “I thought you were so weird-looking in a hot way and I’m sorry for making fun of your clothes they really are not flattering but I think it’s cute like seriously I do,” and, “Dude if you keep touching my thigh I will die, I’ll literally die, please don’t stop, oh my god.” 

Hermann realizes that he is, indeed, running one hand up and down the thigh next to his left hip, bare below Newton’s brightly-patterned boxer briefs, soft and warm and covered in fine hair and utterly addicting. Hermann presses up into another kiss, digs his fingers gently into the soft skin under his palm, cups his hand gently around the back of his thigh. Newton whines brokenly into his mouth and bites gently at Hermann’s lip, which just makes Hermann need to hold on tighter, kiss him deeper. 

“I like you so fucking much, dude,” Newton says, like it pains him. 

“I— Me too,” Hermann breathes, because he knows it needs to be said. And, “I’m sorry for coming to the conference, I was nervous, I was nervous about meeting you—” He kisses Newton again, can’t keep himself away— “but I didn’t want to miss the opportunity, I panicked—”

“Fucking worst first meeting ever,” Newton says, laughing now that it’s behind them. 

“I’m sorry I said all those things to you,” Hermann says earnestly. “I thought you hated me.”

“I _really_ don’t.”

Hermann smiles, and Newton’s next kiss lands on his teeth. “Me neither.”

It really shouldn’t be as shocking as it is. He still feels a little like he hasn’t quite wrapped his head around it, even with Newton in his lap, trying to kiss the breath from his lungs. But he thinks they have a bit of time, now, to make things quite clear.

~

The remainder of the Space Exploration Symposium is _significantly_ more enjoyable than the first four days.

They do actually attend...most of the remaining sessions. They paid a lot of money for it, after all, and for the most part both Hermann and Newton are enthusiastic about the topics being discussed and don’t want to miss out on them. And they’re much more gratifying now that they can discuss the presentations vigorously during their fifteen-minute breaks, debate the subject matter intensely. And they can hold hands between their chairs or under the table. Or pass notes while speakers are onstage. So Hermann doesn’t mind spending the days at the symposium. 

But, well, if sometimes there are sessions neither of them are particularly interested in...or if they’re feeling tired and want to go back to their room early...or if they finish their lunches early and have time to go back to their room for a few minutes…

Well. They’re only human. 

And Newton is _very_ enthusiastic about kissing on stolen time, for whatever reason—even more so than the regular kind, after hours, of which there are still plenty. Evenings on days five through seven are for dinner, and idle chatter, and watching movies together in Newton’s bed, and going out to see more of Sydney, but those stolen minutes (or hours) when they should be in the convention hall are for enthusiastic kissing, according to Newton, and Hermann isn’t about to try and talk him out of it. 

The only downside is, of course, that it’s ending. It’s ending _soon_ , and a tight ball of dread has been building in Hermann’s gut for two and a half days now, as the hour of his flight home draws ever nearer. He should have arranged to stay a couple extra days, he should have known seven days wouldn’t be enough, it wouldn’t have been enough even if they had figured things out right at the beginning. But it’s too late now, he has an email sitting in his inbox for early flight check-in, and it’s coming soon. It’s coming too soon. 

And he has no idea what comes after that. Hermann has never liked uncertainty—has spent hours upon hours studying probability theory and crunching numbers just to feel a little more in control—and everything that comes after his flight back to Berlin is a yawning emptiness for possibility. He has his thesis to finish. And then— He doesn’t know what. He had always planned to work for his father. But the idea of that repels him, quite honestly, and now there’s Newton, there’s Newton across the ocean, and. Hermann doesn’t know what he will be doing, either. He doesn’t know what _they_ will do. About this—this thing. Between them. 

He is terrified to ask. He is terrified to hear the answer. But he can, at least, ask about Newton’s plans for his own future. He can. 

He finally musters up the courage on the evening of day seven, when he is lying down in Newton’s bed and Newton is hovering over him, fully ignoring the movie playing on his laptop in favour of trying to figure out how to run the tip of his tongue along the roof of Hermann’s mouth just right. Hermann makes a pitiful choking sound, and Newton pulls back, and grins, and leans in to kiss along his jaw, and Hermann opens his mouth. 

“What will you be doing after this?” he asks, gasping as Newton licks behind his ear. 

“Huh?” Newton says vaguely, trying it again and eliciting a shiver. 

“After—after the conference,” Hermann clarifies, clutching at Newton’s arms. They’re good arms—strong, stocky like the rest of him, and covered in bright colours that Hermann likes to trail his fingers over. “Now that you’ve got your doctorate.”

“Hmm,” Newton says, nibbling at Hermann’s earlobe a little too hard. Hermann winces. “Getting that tattoo.”

Hermann inhales sharply as Newton lowers his mouth to kiss along the line of his neck. “And then?”

“I don’t know. _Shit_ ,” Newton says, as Hermann trails his fingertips across Newton’s chest, over his shirt. He’s obscenely sensitive. “Uhhhh. Xenobio, maybe?”

“What?” Hermann says, yanking his mind back on track with no small amount of effort. 

“I dunno, I’m kinda into biotech lately? Hey, do you think Technische Universität will take me?”

Hermann presses both of his hands to Newton’s chest and pushes him away, gently but abruptly, to look into his face. “You’re going back to _school?_ ” 

Newton blinks at him, pink-faced and panting. He’s squinting without his glasses on—Hermann removed them after they kept knocking against his face. “Yeah? Probably.”

“For another doctorate?” Hermann presses. “After you’ve just gotten one?”

“Yeah, I think so.” Newton licks at his swollen lips, and Hermann’s vision goes hazy for a moment. “MIT offered me a teaching position, but all my students would be older than me, and also...that’s in Boston, and like…” He trails off, stares down at Hermann for a long second. “And my. My boyfriend is in Berlin.”

Hermann gapes at him openly, mind spinning in a hundred different directions at once. 

Newt’s face goes from pleasantly flushed to red in the blink of an eye. “Shit, is that like, way too fast? I’m sorry, I’m like, I’ve never been in a relationship before, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing—”

Immediately, Hermann yanks Newton down by the front of his shirt and kisses him fiercely, curls a hand around the back of his head to hold him steady, licks into Newton’s mouth with the kind of single-minded determination he usually reserves for proving his father wrong. Newton groans against him, hands scrabbling, and does his best to reciprocate enthusiastically. 

“Was that the right thing to say,” he mumbles, as Hermann pulls back to pant against Newton’s jaw. “Did I do it right.”

“You’re fucking brilliant,” Hermann says, breathing hard. 

“Oh my god,” Newton says, “just so you know, it’s _really_ hot when you swear for some reason.”

Hermann grins, and says, “I’m going to give you a hickey.”

“Holy shit, dude, _yes_.” 

He’s in the middle of it—sucking a hard, bruising kiss into Newton’s neck, just high enough that it will peek out of the collar of his shirt—when his phone goes off across the room. 

“Noooo,” Newton groans. “Please, please, I’ll fucking die Hermann.”

“You say that no matter what I do,” Hermann says, one hand stroking up Newton’s back under his shirt. 

“I will _seriously_ die if you leave this bed to answer your phone right now.”

“It might be important,” Hermann says, already thinking about the noise Newton might make if Hermann touches his chest. 

Newton makes a sound like one of his monsters in the throes of death, and then _flings_ himself out of the bed, across the room, to pick up Hermann’s phone and throw it to him. Hermann blinks, having already resigned himself to missing the call, and then picks it up. 

“Hey, _Brüderchen_ , are you still alive, or did your Mr. Geiszler kill you in your sleep?” 

Hermann feels his face drain. “Ah,” he says, as Newton lies back down on top of him. “Karla.”

“I got used to your daily updates,” Karla says. “Now I’m worried about you.”

Hermann clears his throat, and then says, bizarrely, “It’s Dr. Geiszler, now.”

Newton stares down at him. “Are you talking about me?”

“Is that him?” Karla asks. “So you’re both still breathing, then.”

“Ah, yes,” Hermann says. Newton buries his face in Hermann’s neck and breathes against it hotly. “Quite.”

“That’s good to hear. How are things going?”

“Well,” Hermann says. “Er. _Very_ well.”

There’s a brief pause, and then Karla says, “Oh my god.”

“Mmm,” Hermann says, flushing deeply, because he doesn’t know what else _to_ say. 

“This surprises me _not at all_ , for the record,” Karla says. “Even I could foresee this.”

“Yes, thank you, Karla,” Hermann says dryly. “I distinctly remember you asking if you should come kill him for me, not two months ago.”

Newton snorts, unbothered, and Karla scoffs. “That’s because he hurt your feelings. But I told you to talk to him, didn’t I?”

“Yes, yes, all right. I’m hanging up on you now.” Hermann wrinkles his nose, feels Newton shift against him. “I’m very—busy.”

“Do _not_ say another word,” Karla says. “You will give me the abridged version very soon, okay?”

“Yes, all right. Goodbye.”

“I love you, _Herzchen_ ,” Karla coos, sounding far more mocking than affectionate. 

“Watch your drink the next time you visit,” Hermann tells her. 

Karla laughs, and hangs up. 

Newton is laughing, too, right against Hermann’s throat. “Was she your emotional support this entire time?”

“Yes, and she did a terrible job,” Hermann says. “Now, if you don’t mind—”

“What.”

Hermann shoves a hand up the front of his shirt. 

The sound he makes is very satisfying indeed.

**Author's Note:**

> NEW FANDOM WHO DIS?
> 
> This is my first pacrim fic please be nice to me. And leave me a comment if you can!


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